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Updated: May 12, 2025
It was as if one chapter had been finished, one cup emptied. Then said Edgar suddenly, "And you will be happy at the Hill?" lightly touching her face again with the lemon-plant. "With you anywhere," she answered. "And my mother? Do you remember when you said one day you would not like to be my mother's daughter?
But, with the strange satire of the senses in moments of sorrow, noting ever the most trivial things, Edgar noted specially the powerful perfume of a spray of lemon-plant which she bruised as she pressed his hand against her breast. That evening Edgar Harrowby went down to the rectory.
Something, she knew not what, had passed out of her life, and something had come into it something that Edgar for the moment could neither restore nor yet banish. He pressed her to him for the last time, kissed her passive face again and again, caught the scent of the lemon-plant in her hair where he had placed it, and left her.
Perhaps my gratitude has invested him with a fictitious charm." She spoke with a little mocking air, twisting the sprig of lemon-plant in her long white fingers, and looking down meditatively at the carpet. "He will follow up his advantage," remarked Mrs. Tell, knitting steadily. "No man ever had a more favourable introduction. I wonder if he knew whose carriage it was when he stopped the horses?
It was in the middle of a patch of highly-cultivated ground, which bore creditable evidence to the industry of its proprietor. Fruit trees, Turkey corn, vines, and flax flourished in luxuriance. The dwelling itself was covered with myrtle and arbutus, and the tall lemon-plant perfumed the window of the sitting-room. The casement of Vivian's chamber opened full on the foaming cataract.
"But I am neither a saint nor a hero," said Edgar, drawing a sprig of lemon-plant which he held in his hand lightly across her face. "You are both," answered Leam as positively as she used to answer Alick about the ugliness of England and the want of flowers in the woods and hedges, and with as much conviction of her case. "And you are an angel," he returned.
Verdon. "They described one of the impossible heroes of fiction. You know, they have a talent for description." "But isn't he nice?" Mrs. Tell asked. "Yes, he is nice. There is something about him that is not commonplace." She leaned back in her chair with a half-smile, absently toying with a sprig of lemon-plant.
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