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Updated: May 19, 2025
"You are not afraid?" A flush of sheer delight in life flooded her cheeks. "Afraid?" she laughed. "Hortense! Hortense! Do you not hear the drunken revel? Do you know what it means? This world is full of what a maid must fear. 'Tis her fear protects her." "Ah?" asks Hortense. And she opened the tight-clasped hunting-cloak. A Spanish poniard hung against the inner folds.
She was tempting him now, coming nearer to wind her soft arms about him and hold him close, so that he would be powerless, as he always was when her breath was on his cheek, and her eyes pleading for a bending of his stern principles before her more-worldly needs. She held him tight-clasped to her until he could feel the beating of her heart and the heaving of her bosom against his breast.
"I've heard our Sennacherib and his brother 'Saiah say over and over again as since that time he niver so much as opened a piece of music." The little old maid arose with both hands on her heart, tight-clasped there. Her eyes were wild and she panted as if for breath. "Miss Blythe!" cried the other, alarmed by her aspect "Rachel! What's the matter? Why, my dear, you're ill!
She invoked the grace of God; her head, her body, her feet seemed very light and remote as she walked; she seemed, rather, to float; her feet scarcely touched the red-ingrain aisle "runner" she was nearly all spirit. She knelt before the altar between grandpa and grandma, one hand tight-clasped in grandpa's. Despite her exaltation, she was conscious of material things.
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