Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only
admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on
him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. The features
were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow
below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun?
Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of
energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald
made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. I hate what I am. She would be
in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the
colored glass window with her embroidery. He
fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the
arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him,
whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "My son! my dear, dear son!" returned Mrs. I feel years younger, a man again.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 29-06-2024 18:56:21