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Updated: May 28, 2025
As she rode under the flowering trees to the stable where she kept her horse, she wondered whether she should tell her stepsisters of Francis Sales's proposal, but she knew she would not do so. She seldom told them anything they did not know already.
'Have you been on the terrace? 'Yes, it's a glorious night. 'You'll get cold, Charles said severely. She had been out there with the man who murdered music and who, therefore, was a scoundrel, and Charles's objection was based on that fact and not on Francis Sales's married state.
She was wounded in the arm on the second day's march, the ball passing first below the elbow and coming out at the wrist, while there were other balls which passed through her habit; Mrs. Sturt's fatherless child, Lady Sales's grand-daughter, was born in a small room without light and almost without air.
'H'm, he'll do what his wife tells him, I imagine. No girl will appreciate Mrs. Sales's washy paintings. 'Rose would, Sophia sighed. 'Yes, I do, Rose said cheerfully. She was too cheerful for Sophia's romantic little theory, but an acuter audience would have found her too cheerful for herself. She had overdone it by half a tone, but the exaggeration was too fine for any ears but her own.
I wished we lived nearer Radstowe. 'And I envy you here. It's peaceful. 'Yes, it's that, Mrs. Sales agreed. 'I'm a good deal older than you, you see, Rose elaborated. 'That's just it, said Mrs. Sales. Rose laughed, and Francis, standing at the door, turned at the sound in time to catch the end of Rose's smile. 'What are you laughing at? 'Mrs. Sales's candour. 'Oh, was I rude? 'No.
There would be no swift footsteps up and down the stairs, no bursts of singing, no laughter: she must not go; she could not be spared. For a moment Rose forgot Francis Sales's share in the adventure: she could only think of her own impending loneliness.
It was impossible not to feel a warmth of satisfaction, and she asked shortly, 'Why not? 'She wouldn't understand. You're human. I'm devilish lonely. Well, you know my circumstances. A shadow which seemed to affect the brightness of the autumn day, even deadening the clear shouting of the men and the jingling of the chains attached to the horses, passed over Francis Sales's face.
It was understood, but periodically she had to submit to Francis Sales's complaint, 'You never wrote. 'So you cut down the trees, she said half playfully. 'Why didn't you write? 'Oh, Francis, you know quite well. He was looking at the ground; he had not once looked at her since her greeting. 'You go off on a holiday, enjoying yourself, while I who did you go with?
If she had had less faith in Francis Sales's love and, at the same time, had been capable of pandering to it, she might have had his devotion for her old age, the devotion of a somewhat querulous and dull old man. Now she had not even that to hope for, and she was glad. She had always wanted the best of everything, and always, except in the one fatal instance, refused what fell below her standard.
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