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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Your hand, Queen Freydis, whatever mischief it may have executed, is soft as velvet. It is colored like rose-petals, but it smells more sweet than they. No, certainly, my images are not worth the ruining of such a hand." Then Manuel released her, sighing. "My geas must stay upon me, and my images must wait," says Manuel.
The flowers lay supine, their faces beaten into the mud; the greensward was littered with fallen leaves and twigs and even in one or two places whole branches had been broken from the trees; on the ground about each rose-bush a snow of pink rose-petals lay scattered; in the paths there were hundreds of little pools, shining in the sun like pools of fire.
The pretty white room was full of rose-coloured twilight, so pink, it seemed, that if you closed your hand tightly you might find a little ball of crushed rose-petals there when you opened it.
No doubt he would decide that the margin had been left for the purpose of making notes, making notes on those abstruse rose-petals of boyish song!
The dark rose-petals of her cheeks were mantled deeper red, but she laughed. "That is true." She turned abruptly serious. "I should not laugh. The wonders of the next generation conquering humans marching on...." Her voice trailed away. My hand went to her arm. Strange tingling something which poets call love! It burned and surged through my trembling fingers into the flesh of her forearm.
He stood in the middle of the musty woodshed, pessimistically kicking at the scattered wood. His face was stern, as became a man of eight who was a soldier of fortune famed from the front gate to the chicken-yard. An unromantic film of dirt hid the fact that his Scandinavian cheeks were like cream-colored silk stained with rose-petals.
He walked across the corridor, threw open a door a real, palpable door... and there was Soames' little white room! Soames staggered across, for it seemed a veritable haven of refuge entered, and dropped upon the bed. He seemed to see the rose-petals fall fall falling in that red room in the labyrinth the room that had no door; he seemed to see the laughing eyes of the beautiful Eurasian.
He at once obeyed, yielding anew to the sense of indolent luxury and voluptuous ease his surroundings engendered, and presently the aroma of rising incense mingled itself with the scent of the strewn rose-petals, the pages had replenished the incense-burner, and now, these duties done so far, they brought each a broad, long stalked palm-leaf, and placing themselves in proper position, began to fan the two young men slowly and with measured gentleness, standing as mute as little black statues, the only movement about them being the occasional rolling of their white eyeballs and the swaying to and fro of their shiny arms as they wielded the graceful, bending leaves.
Outside, the sea murmured and the leaves rustled, the sun had sunk, leaving behind it a bright, pearly twilight sky, flecked with pink clouds like scattered rose-petals. He looked straight at her, his clear dark grey eyes were filled with the glowing fire of strongly suppressed feeling.
Now in the midst of it, in a morning dress of pink, fresh and fair as a blossom herself, stood Eugenia, reaching up for a half-blown bud above her head. Her sleeves fell back from her graceful white arms, and as she broke the bud from its stem a shower of rose-petals fell on her dusky hair and upturned face.
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