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Updated: June 18, 2025
Wild white roses that grew in the sandy stubble above the shore, little orange-scented roses that straggled through the grass they called to something that ran in Columbine's blood, they spoke to her of the South. She was sure that she would find those roses all about her feet when she came to the end of the long voyage. She would see their golden hearts wide open to the sun.
"I dare say; and that is just the worst thing about it." "Because it was inartistic?" "N-no; it was all inartistic. I meant because it was cruel." He smiled. "Cruel? Do you mean to the hunchback?" "I mean Of course the man himself was quite indifferent; no doubt, it is to him just a way of getting a living, like the circus-rider's way or the columbine's. But the thing makes one feel unhappy.
She did not analyze her deliberate desire to tell the truth about that fight, but she would have liked to proclaim it to the whole range and to the world. Once clear of the house she felt free, unburdened, and to talk seemed to relieve some congestion of her thoughts. The hounds heralded Columbine's approach with a deep and booming chorus. Sampson and Jim lay upon the porch, unleashed.
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