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Updated: June 6, 2025
Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle Cerise and others would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone, had briefly declined. His uncle shrugged his shoulders, and went on with other work. It would end in his having to go to Paris and finish the picture there, he said. Perhaps the youth was getting into mischief? So much the better. He took no newspapers. What did an artist need of them?
There was still romance in the soul of Madame Cerise, however withered her cheeks might be. She was very glad that at last she had summoned courage to act according to the dictates of her heart. Eh? What is this? A rumble of wheels over the frozen snow caused her to glance at the clock above the mantel. Not by any possibility could Monsieur Weldon arrive so soon. Who, then, could it be?
We waited for upwards of an hour, in the hope of seeing those camels hoisted aboard; but in vain. While we were so waiting one of the deck passengers below us, a Somali in white clothes and a gorgeous cerise turban, decided to turn in. He spread a square of thin matting atop one of the hatches, and began to unwind yards and yards of the fine silk turban.
Consulting her on the occasion, with many tears Cerise acknowledged my prudence, and having divided the remainder of my property, one half of which I laid out in merchandise, and the other I gave to her, for her support during my absence, I embarked on board of a vessel bound to the West Indies.
I was so affected at the intelligence of Cerise having destroyed herself, that I found it impossible to remain on shore. Having met with the captain of a whaler, who expatiated on the fortune which might be realised by embarking in the speculation, I purchased a large ship, and fitted it out for a voyage to Baffin's Bay.
There was a purple dawn, and the towering cliffs behind the minarets glowed a deep cerise for at least ten minutes ere the light reached the town. The streets were still and deserted, but at last an old man with a coffee machine on his back, and a tin waistbelt full of pigeon-holes containing cups, took a seat at a corner.
Warne, striving to be of comfort. Georgiana shrugged her blue-clad shoulders. "Oh, yes, if I could dress in slitted silk petticoats and you could wear them for dressing-gowns, we'd have plenty. Well, look at this! Here's a velvet cerise! What a glorious, impossible colour!
Gritzko's colors were a rich greenish-blue, while the reins and velvet caps and belts of the drivers were a dull cerise; the caps were braided with silver, while they and the coats and the blue velvet rugs were lined and bordered with sable. One set of horses was coal black, and the others a dark gray.
'No; I'd like to see you do it! Er what colour is that hat that your cousin gave you? 'Oh, colour? he said thoughtfully, smoking. 'Let me see what colour was it? It doesn't seem to me that it was any particular colour. It was a very curious colour. Sort of mole-colour. Or was it cerise? Or violet?... You wouldn't like to see it, would you?
Habersham, mentioned by Penfield as one of Marcia Oldham's most loyal friends, and Hayden was Tremendously interested in discovering in her the dark woman with the rose-colored gown and the cerise wings in her hair with whom Marcia had talked that night at the opera.
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