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Updated: May 24, 2025
'Fly, clipped wing! murmured Rosamund, and purposely sent a buzz into her ears to shut out his extravagant talk of Renee's friendly wishes. 'How is it you women will not believe in the sincerity of a woman! he exclaimed. 'Nevil, I am not alluding to the damage done to your election. 'To my candidature, ma'am. You mean those rumours, those lies of the enemy.
You looked for me! Trust your instinct now I'm with you as well as when I'm absent. Have you courage? that 's the question. You have years to live. Can you live them in this place with honour? and alive really? Renee's eyes grew wide; she tried to frown, and her brows merely twitched; to speak, and she was inarticulate.
Renee's gift of speech counted unnumbered strings which she played on with a grace that clothed the skill, and was her natural endowment an art perfected by the education of the world. Who cannot talk! but who can? Discover the writers in a day when all are writing! It is as rare an art as poetry, and in the mouths of women as enrapturing, richer than their voices in music.
No young ladies: I can bear much, but not their presence; girls are odious to me. I knew one in Venice. They came within the rays of the lamp hanging above the unpretending entrance to the chateau. Renee's broad grey Longueville hat curved low with its black plume on the side farthest from him. He was favoured by the gallant lift of the brim on the near side, but she had overshadowed her eyes.
The ship in the Arabian tale coming within the zone of the magnetic mountain, flies all its bolts and bars, and becomes sheer timbers, but that is the carelessness of the ship's captain; and hitherto Beauchamp could applaud himself for steering with prudence, while Renee's attractions warned more than they beckoned. She was magnetic to him as no other woman was.
He was overworked, anxious, restless, craving for a holiday somewhere in France, possibly; he was all but leaping on board the boat at times, and, unwilling to leave his dear old friend who clung to him, he stayed, keeping his impulses below the tide- mark which leads to action, but where they do not yield peace of spirit. The tone of Renee's letters filled him with misgivings.
A low-burning lamp and fire cast a narrow ring on the shadows of the dusky London room. One of the window-blinds was drawn up. Beauchamp discerned a shape at that window, and the fear seized him that it might be Madame d'Auffray with evil news of Renee: but it was Renee's name he called. She rose from her chair, saying, 'I! She was trembling.
You looked for me! Trust your instinct now I'm with you as well as when I'm absent. Have you courage? that 's the question. You have years to live. Can you live them in this place with honour? and alive really? Renee's eyes grew wide; she tried to frown, and her brows merely twitched; to speak, and she was inarticulate.
Beauchamp's attention was drawn to her repetition of the phrase 'mistress of the house. However, she did him justice in regard to Renee, and thoroughly entered into the fiction of Renee's visit to her as her guest: he passed over everything else.
She set up his image and Renee's, and cowered under the heroical shapes till she felt almost extinct. With her weak limbs and head worthlessly paining, the little infantile I within her ceased to wail, dwindled beyond sensation.
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