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Updated: May 11, 2025
The Williamson half of her life was so clumsily, so grotesquely ill-matched with the Myrtilla half that it was, and probably will always remain, a mystery why she had ever attempted so tasteless and inconvenient an addition, a mystery, however, far from unique in the history of those mysteriously stupid unhappy marriages with evident boors which refined and charming women will, it is to be feared, go on making to the end of the human chapter.
So, in spite of Myrtilla's efforts to make friends, the conversation sustained a distinct loss in sprightliness by Angel's arrival. Myrtilla, perhaps divining a little of the truth, rose to go. "Well, I'm afraid it's quite a long good-bye," she said. "Oh, you're going away?" said Angel, with a shade of relief involuntarily in her voice.
And it is in vain, my too subtle brother, you think to build the trophies of your conquests on the ruin of both Myrtilla's fame and mine: oh how dear would your inglorious passion cost the great unfortunate house of the Beralti, while you poorly ruin the fame of Myrtilla, to make way to the heart of Sylvia!
You can take it with you; I have finished it. Come next week and tell me what you think of it." As Esther walked down the path, Myrtilla watched her, and, as she passed out of the gate, waved her a final kiss of parting, and turned indoors. There seemed something ever so sad about her dainty back as it disappeared into the doorway.
"And you I suppose are to nurse the to nurse him?" said Henry, savagely. "Hush, lad! It's no use, not a bit! You won't help me that way," she said, laying her hand kindly on his, and her eyes growing bright with suppressed tears. "It's a shame, nevertheless, Myrtilla, a cruel shame!" "You'd like to say it was a something-else shame, wouldn't you, dear boy?
She was one of those rare people who make you feel happy in yourself, who send you away somehow dignified, profitably raised in your own esteem; just as others have a mysterious power of dejecting you in your proudest moments. If you had any charm, however shy, Myrtilla Williamson would find it, and send you away with a great gush of gratitude to her because it had been found at last.
What makes Myrtilla, who possesses all, looks on thee, feels thy kisses, hears thee speak, and yet wants sense to know how blessed she is, it is want of judgement all; and how, and how can she that judges ill, love well?
How did you ever dare venture into this wild and savage spot, this mountain-fastness of Bohemia?" "Yes, it was brave of me, wasn't it?" said Myrtilla, with a little laugh, for which the stairs had hardly left her breath. "But what a climb! It is like having your rooms on the Matterhorn.
"Penny's a solemn old boy," she announced generally. Lambert Babb attempted to embrace Myrtilla, but, her gaze on the newcomer, she pushed him away. "You got to be a gentleman with me," she proclaimed with a patently unsteady dignity. "My grandfather was a French noble." "What I'd like to know," Essie remarked, "is what's his granddaughter?" "Better'n you!"
Oh wretched maid what has thy fondness done, he is satiated now with thee, as before with Myrtilla, and carries all those dear, those charming joys, to some new beauty, whom his looks have conquered, and whom his soft bewitching vows will ruin. With that she raved and stamped, and cried aloud, 'Hell fires tortures daggers racks and poison come all to my relief!
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