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"You have been so ill!" he said; and then he looked up and saw again this splendid creature, loosely clad in white, her black hair, unbraided and unbound, flowing in wave and ripple far down her back, her sleeve falling from the uplifted arm and perfect hand, that held a fan of the rose-colored spoonbill's feathers above her head, so beautiful and brilliant that she seemed only a projection of that beautiful and brilliant hour, with all its radiant dyes, before the sun was up; and he forgot that Lilian had been ill, forgot for a moment that Lilian existed.
He spoke of my dresses, and I told him that as I was very anxious not to be worried about them at the last minute, they had been got on with early and were now finished. "Finished! That's very interesting! Very interesting. And what er what colors are they?" "In the first scene I wear a pinkish dress. It's all rose-colored with her. Her father and brother love her.
If there was any one in particular whose high spirits and good-humor equalled the king's, it was M. de Saint-Aignan, who was dressed in a rose-colored costume, with face and ribbons of the same color, and, in addition, particularly rose-colored in his ideas, for that evening M. de Saint-Aignan was prolific in jests.
It reflected Madge, slim and gold, with a huge fan of lilac feathers. It reflected Becky in a rose-colored damask chair, it reflected the three men in black. Years ago there had been other men and women the Admiral's wife in red velvet and the same pearls that were now on Becky's neck She shuddered. As they drove home that night, the Major spoke to his wife of Becky. "The child looks unhappy."
"Yet it gave you something, Emily," he said, slowly, "that not every woman has: good-breeding, and the ability to look above the sordid. You are like Jean all your world is rose-colored." She was thoughtful. "Not quite like Jean. I heard a dear old bishop ask the other day why we should see only the ash cans and garbage cans in our back yards when there was blue sky above?
Having recovered my health after a sojourn of two weeks amid the charming scenery of Mount Rosalia, or the "Rose-colored Mount," I set forth one morning, accompanied by a competent guide, to visit the home of my friend, Henry Clay. The morning was uncommonly fine, even for the sweet Land of the Blest, and the fragrance from the roses blooming upon the hill-side was fairly intoxicating.
There is a spring feeling in the air. This spring feeling is, however, scarcely perceptible in his last book, Jacob, which is written in anything but a hopeful mood. It is, rather, a protest against that optimism which in fiction we call poetic justice. The harsh and unsentimental logic of reality is emphasized with a ruthless disregard of rose-colored traditions.
Its door was besieged day and night by slaves and freedmen bringing her offerings of flowers and fruit, rare gifts, and tender verses written on perfumed, rose-colored silk; but her favors were not to be purchased till she met Orion.
Could she climb out, reach her friend of the Alaska Café? If she had to Then she grinned. The world was rose-colored and hung with tinkling bells. "I love even that Pinky person!" she said. In the yard of the hotel, beside her Gomez, was a Teal bug, and two men were sleeping in blankets on the ground. She marched over to the door. She flung it open. The man started back.
He stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held between his fingers a small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some verses were written written indeed by the officer himself; for who has not, at least once in his life, had a lyrical moment? And if one then marks down one's thoughts, poetry is produced. But here was written: OH, WERE I RICH! "Oh, were I rich!
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