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Updated: May 7, 2025
I know that is a lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes. Mrs. C. Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you, and drive them away? Ger. No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain. Mrs. C. How long have you had this headache? Ger. She's been buried for ages, and won't grow brown. Mrs. C. There's no woman there, Arthur. Ger. Of course not.
"I'll bet it was. How'd you come to be walking so far?" Lorraine looked at him suspiciously. Lone thought her eyes were the most wonderful eyes and the most terrible that he had ever seen. Almond-shaped they were, the irises a clear, dark gray, the eyeballs blue-white like a healthy baby's. That was the wonder of them. But their glassy shine made them terrible. Her lids lifted in a sudden stare.
The hairdressing had been a success; her reddish mass of hair was piled and crushed and creased to an arrogant marvel of mobile curves. Her lips were finely made of deep carmine; the irises of her eyes were delicate, breakable blue, like china eyes. She was a complete, infinitely delicate, quite perfect thing of beauty, flowing in an even line from a complex coiffure to two small slim feet.
"Whites of the eyes showing all around the irises, hair growing stiffly erect from the scalp and low down upon the forehead even their mannerisms and their carriage are those of maniacs." The girl shuddered. "Another thing about them," continued the Englishman, "that doesn't appear normal is that they are afraid of parrots and utterly fearless of lions."
The shade, the sound of springs, the terraced orange-garden with irises blooming along channels of running water, all this greenery and coolness in the hollow of a fierce red hill make Chella seem, to the traveller new to Africa, the very type and embodiment of its old contrasts of heat and freshness, of fire and languor. It is like a desert traveller's dream in his last fever.
It has been my special delight since I was a child, when my mother first routed it out of a garret. I am not sure that I don't in my heart prefer it to any of the pictures." "The flowers!" said Marcella, absorbed in it "look at them the irises, the cyclamens, the lilies! It reminds one of the dreams one used to have when one was small of what it would be like to have flowers enough.
What if I should love them, William! love and hate them both at once! William! William! Mind you don't let them in. Col. G. Martha is there, sir. Ger. She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look. You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't let them in, for the love of God, William!
Here was a woman who looked to be happy. And more she looked to be content. Had a poet been inspired to pen just similes concerning her favour, he would have likened her full, clear eyes, with their white-encircled, gray irises, to moonflowers. With none of the goddesses whose traditional charms have become coldly classic would the discerning rhymester have compared her.
Did God, the Eternal, set him all ready-made beneath the laurels of Paradise? Lying crouched beneath a rosebush he had, perhaps, seen Eve, and watched her when she had wandered amid the irises, displaying the grace of her brown legs like a prancing young horse, and extending her golden breasts before the mystic pomegranates. Or was he at first nothing but an incandescent mist?
Truly a beautiful land Bhutan, at its loveliest perhaps in spring, when the hills and upland meadows where the yaks graze, ten thousand feet above the sea, blaze with the mingled colours of anemones blue and white, of yellow pansies and mauve and white irises, of large white roses and small yellow ones, of giant yellow primulas with six tiers of flowers, when the oaks and the chestnuts are clothed in young green, and the apricot, pear and orange trees are in bloom, when large and lovely blossoms cover that little-known tree that the Bhutanese call chape, when the bright green of the young grass runs up to the white snowfields.
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