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Arden had something of his mother's quiet dignity, as he rose and held out to Edith a letter, saying: "Will you please read that you need not answer it and then perhaps you will understand me better." Edith hesitated, and was reluctant. "I may be doing wrong," continued he, earnestly and with rising color.
ARDEN: Frankly, sir, I wish you to know me better; and I think I can bear inspection. Astraea sent me to hear the reasons why she refuses me a hearing. HOMEWARE: Her reason, I repeat, is this; to her idea, a second wedlock is unholy. Further, it passes me to explain. The young lady lands us where we were at the beginning; such must have been her humorous intention. ARDEN: What can I do?
We are now at the end of our travel, in the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced courage would no longer support them; for, though they were in the forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke.
"And I think, my dear," continued her father, "that the less you trouble yourself about this business the bettor. Any interference on your part will only annoy me, and may occasion unpleasantness between us. You will go back to Arden, to-morrow, as I intended, with Warman, and one of the men to take care of your luggage. The rest of the establishment will follow in a day or so." "And you, papa?"
The forest of Arden, the nimble air of Scone Castle, the moonlight of Portia's villa, "the antres vast and desarts idle," of Othello's captivity, where is the third cousin, or grand-nephew, the chancellor's file of accounts, or private letter, that has kept one word of those transcendent secrets.
It sneers where it once stoned; it rejects and scorns where it once beat and burned. And so Arden has become a refuge, not so much from persecution and hatred as from ignorance, indifference, and the small wounds of small minds bent upon stinging that which they cannot destroy. . . . Fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.
Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall find her in an orchard in Verona." Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it." "My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal.
But, strong as was our longing, we were not without misgivings when we first found ourselves in Arden. In this commerce of ideas and hopes, what had we to give in exchange? How could we claim that equality with those we longed to know which is the only basis of friendship?
The interest is much the same that is aroused in a student of Elizabethan literature by that study of murder, Arden of Feversham, not that higher attraction that he feels horrors notwithstanding for The Maid's Tragedy of Beaumont and Fletcher, or The Duchess of Malfi of Webster. National Gallery. A convenient date for the magnificent St.
Granger made a wry face, and ordered that rubbish to be swept away. "You can build me half-a-dozen upon the new Arden design," he said; "red brick, with stone dressings; and be sure you put a tablet with the date in front of each." He was thinking of his son, anxious that there should be some notable improvement, some new building every year, to mark the progress of his boy's existence.
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