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She ought to be happy, if she is not, and I am sure there is not another woman in town but would feel herself the most favored of her sex if she had the half of Juliet's prospects before her. But Juliet was ever wayward; and simply because she ought to increase in beauty and joy, she pales and pines and gets delicate, and makes the hearts of her lovers grow mad with fear and longing.
And a fixed occupation is something of an advantage at times, n'est-ce-pas? Je t'aime, tu l'aime! And how soon do you ride away? Or is that question premature?" Juliet's face burned in the dimness, but she was in front of him and thankfully aware that he could not see it. "I am not answering any more questions, Charles," she said.
And to the patter of hoofs and the tonkle of bells, they started home again. Mrs. Wicket, in the kitchen, watched them from her window, in the clear, fading light. "How good he is," she thought. And she turned, with a smile and a sigh, to set the table for Juliet's supper. Mr. Jeminy walked in the middle of the road, under the dying sky, already lighted by the young moon, in the west.
Oh, I know I ought not to say it," he broke off; "I'm a cad to speak like this. Forgive me, Juliet." Juliet's world revolved around her at an unusual pace for the space of a second. She shut her eyes to steady herself; a mixture of misery and happiness deprived her of speech or movement. Gradually the misery predominated and she burst into tears. "Forgive me, forgive me," he was saying.
Juliet's voice failed her; she spoke the last few words in a quavering whisper, and if Gimblet had looked at her at that moment he would have beheld a countenance drawn and distorted by horror. But he was very much occupied, and did not look up. With a notebook open on his knee, he was busily writing down what she had said.
Thus persuaded, the girl poured out the tale of her adventures, which had been pent up in her stubborn heart, as the waters were sometimes pent up in the lock; and then, just as the waters when they escape from the lock pour out and away in a mad foaming rush, so Juliet's thoughts and words poured themselves out in a torrent when once she began to talk.
"When when Miss Bernard comes back again," asked Juliet, wistfully, "shall I have to go?" "No, dear indeed no! This is your home until the right man comes a- wooing, and takes you to a little house of your own." Scarlet signals flamed in Juliet's cheeks as she earnestly devoted herself to her sewing, and Madame smiled.
Every one must feel the exquisite fitness of Juliet's "Gallop apace, ye fiery-footed steeds," etc., for one of her character, in her circumstances: every one, we trust, and Mr. Smith among the number, will some day feel the exquisite unfitness of using such conceits as we have just quoted, or any other, page after page, for all characters and chances.
Then a purchaser appeared, and Jerry Pollard went forward, his business smile returning to his face. The purchaser was Mrs. Burwell, and, as Nicholas passed out, she looked up from a pair of waffle-irons she was selecting and nodded pleasantly. "I am glad to see you, Nicholas," she said. "Juliet was asking after you in her last letter. You were always a favourite of Juliet's. I was telling Mr.
How could bare boards conjure up a vision of Juliet's garden, of the wood "outside Athens" in which Titania and Oberon met, of Prospero's island, of the Forest of Arden? How could any boy, however smoothly spoken, present a Rosalind, a Juliet, a Miranda, or Cordelia?
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