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Updated: June 28, 2025
There are also gardens for all the gorgeous flowers of Java: the frangipani, the wax-white, gold-centered flower of the dead, the red and yellow lantanas, the scarlet poinsetta, the crimson bougainvillea, and others in bewildering variety.
Her face changed while she looked at it; grieved girlhood passed into sunken age. Her lips turned wax-white, and drooped at the corners. She set the box on a dressing-table beside the candle, unlocked it and turned back the lid. Marie was repelled by a faint odor aside from its breath of dead spices. Antonia unfolded a linen cloth and showed a pallid human hand, its stump concealed by a napkin.
There were smiling faces and good wishes at the breakfast-table, and the shifting lustres of blazing fires upon the dark walls and evergreens and wax-white mistletoe. And the wind brought a Christmas greeting from the bells of Furness and Torver, and Sandal-Side peal sent it on to Earlstower and Coniston.
There were thirty-six corpses of adults in sight, stretched on their backs on slightly slanted boards, in three long rows all of them with wax-white, rigid faces, and all of them wrapped in white shrouds.
There were thirty-six corpses of adults in sight, stretched on their backs on slightly slanted boards, in three long rows all of them with wax-white, rigid faces, and all of them wrapped in white shrouds.
"I want her and I want her right away." Madelene fell back a step, wax-white. "Elsie!" she echoed. "Isn't she home?" "Madelene," Ebenezer began in a deadening voice, "you know me well enough not to play with me like this. Where's my daughter?" Madelene's hands came together. "She's not here!... She's home, Ebbie, dear, she must be!" "She's not!" fell from Waldstricker. "Call Helen!"
Now while I thus spoke the old man was sorely troubled, and his wax-white face turned paler at each word.
I had distinguished a dead-looking rose and some faded out sunflowers when I heard the click of the door, and a waft of perfume touched the stale air, and made it like a garden. I looked up. There she stood in the doorway, the Spanish Woman. She was all in black, her face wax-white, a little black hat on her wonderful golden-red hair, and in her breast a tuberose.
"Mercy! they felt so kind of clammy they made me jump. They HAVE had a party. Here's some of the flowers left fallen on the carpet." She held up a cluster of wax-white hyacinths and large heavy rosebuds, faded to discoloration. "This has dropped out of some set piece. It felt like cold flesh when I first touched it. I don't like a lot of white things together. They look too kind of mournful.
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