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Updated: May 24, 2025
Around me are athletic men, all naked, in the strangest attitudes of studied rest, down-gazing, as I do, into the depths below. There comes a confused murmur of voices, and the tower is threaded and rethreaded with great cables. Up these there climb to us a crowd of young men, clinging to the ropes and flinging their bodies sideways on aërial trapezes. My heart trembles with keen joy and terror.
The summer had given place to autumn. The courtyard of Bury Castle was strewn with golden and russet leaves; the Countess was preparing a new dress for the feast of Saint Luke. A foggy day had ended in a dark night, and Eva threw down her work and rethreaded her needle with a long-drawn sigh. "Tired of sewing, Eva?" "Very tired, Lady. I almost wish buttons grew on robes, and required no sewing."
Beatrice stopped the scarlet, and rethreaded the blue. "More than thou wouldst like?" "That would depend on circumstances." "What circumstances?" inquired the bashful yet persistent suitor. "Who was to marry me, principally." "Suppose I was?" "Thou canst not, till thou hast asked my father." There was a gleam in the dark eyes veiled with their long lashes. It might be either resentment or fun.
"How do you suppose that red baby will ever look in this pink basket?" she asked. And then with a regretful little sigh, she declared that she wished she'd "used blue." "I didn't think the baby that we chose was so horribly red," said Aggie. "Red!" cried Zoie, "it's magenta." And again her thread broke. "Oh, darn!" she exclaimed in annoyance, and once more rethreaded her needle.
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