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Updated: June 23, 2025
But he, remembering their ancient potency, seeing himself the triumphant wielder of charms, felt secure in them still; therefore she was his darling, his hardy little lover, his Queen of Love, his saucy Sancie, his lass. On fire himself by his own blowing, at last he fell upon his knees and clasped hers: "Dearest, most beautiful, my own, I love you more than ever.
That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near poetry as I can hope to get this side the harps and quires. Now, what on earth is Clyde doing to his roses at this time of year?" The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, aproned and shirt-sleeved, turned a shade darker. His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant, even to her. "It doesn't matter," he had once told her, "what you say or do.
"Sancie, my own Sancie," he said, and put his arm about her, and drew her bodily to his side. She stiffened, but allowed it. "Dearest girl, tell me that you forgive me tell me that. I am wretched without you I can't go on like this. It's not good for me; my health suffers. Darling Sancie, forgive poor old Nevile. He was once your boy you loved him so much.
How did you I simply can't understand it how did you ever ? I suppose you loved him very much?" Sanchia was in a hard stare. "Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose I did." Vicky's head darted back. "Ah! But now you don't a bit. I knew you didn't! Sancie, that's what I can't understand. Because, you know, when you're married you do. You always love the same person. You must you can't help it.
You mean, if that's marriage many thanks! Well, my dear, all I can say is, you were absolutely wrong. It was not marriage it never had been, and you know it couldn't have been. But if it had been, Sancie, you'd have been as right as rain. You know you would. Your own place everything to your hand Society all that kind of thing.
Chevenix revelled in him. "Still the complete moralist, old Jack!" he cheered. "I'll back you for a bushel of nuts to have it out with Charon as you ferry across. And here, for want of us, you turn to the hares! Sancie, you and I must get season tickets to Sarum, or he'll forget his tongue." Sanchia, overcome by shyness, had nothing to do with this brisk interchange.
Devereux to "Oh, I say!" but it was then revealed to him that there might be a part for him to play. "Right, Sancie you're mistress here. See you later." He met her eyes gallantly, and lifted his hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux, and went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. The elder lady and the young man stood face to face without speaking. Then Mrs.
Ingram nodded. "She thought no end of him. He took her affair with me very much to heart." "As well he might," said Chevenix. "I fancy that you were the only person who took it easy." "Sancie used to tell him everything," Ingram went on, "and she told him all the trouble. She'd been turned adrift with fifty pounds to her name." "Not quite so bad as that," Chevenix put in.
She took a serious tone, for the matter was serious. "You know, Sancie, you're the only beauty in our family, the only real beauty. Philippa's awfully handsome, I know, and greatly admired and I've always said that Melot was lovely. There are those three sorts of women, you know. Philippa's handsome, Melot's lovely, and you're beautiful. Then there's prettiness.
Wasn't that sweet of him? You would adore Cuthbert if you knew him as well as I do. But, of course, that's absurd." She suddenly became intense. "Sancie!" she said, then stopped and peered. "Yes?" It was a sobered goddess who waited for close quarters. Vicky put her question, but peered no more. "I wish you would tell me one thing, which has always puzzled me. But don't, if you would rather not.
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