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Eve ze's nose is going to run into my nose. What to do? Don't! First kiss must be very romantic! What might happen in your hallway beside the toilet? (# > __ < b #) > Drumming. Heart jump quite hard, but they will jump out of the chest. I close my eyes tightly. Life and death by life, wealth in days. Head suddenly popped out so in a word, and then a blank. "What are you doing? Face wrinkled like walnut? See close pores is big, scary." Eve ze suddenly let go of me, carrying luggage went to his room. "Go to hell!" I become angry from embarrassment to rush him to do an indecent gesture. Night when ze thud close: "don't want to sneak attack at night!" "You have a dream!" @ < @ O "I don't want to be a nightmare." Deaf. Angry don't want to. I gave him a kick the door a kick. Dead guy! We'll see! The gentleman revenge, decade not night! At night. Moonlight sprinkled into the room through the window, rendering transparent silver. Desk, bookcase is pulled out of the long shadows. I absently turned over and was going to continue to dream, suddenly feel someone twist my ear, open on see, dad sitting on my bed a face of the deep expression. "Dad, if you are hungry to find night when jersey next to cook a meal to eat for you." I rubbed my eyes. Seems to me a pedal on a night when jersey's head proudly dream of eating watermelon, destined to not below. What a pity. "I'm full." -_ - b "That you find I have what thing?" (# : -)! zZ "I'm sorry, jersey to come over to live, I don't have to discuss with you in advance." "It doesn't matter." Anyway, you do this kind of short of nerve has been too much. "His house is really something." "What is it?" "I promised the land to keep a secret." I sat up, cocked his head and looks into his: "aunt, dad, do you like night?" Father with a pair of beautiful eyes wide open in surprise: "bubble, why do you think so?" "You let eve ze aunt came to live for?" "..." "Dad you love mom?" I hugged his neck, "if you don't love her, if..." Throat choked me. Dad and mom is very good to me, why I will care about this problem? "The silly child." He gently stroked my hair. "If you are not really love each other, giving birth to me, I feel... upset." I continued, "do you really want to and aunt together, however, I also don't object to...... as long as the happy dad..." They now is single, want to restart their lives is taken for granted. But his heart hurts... "Don't think so many...... my father is so not worth of trust people?" He scraped the blowing my nose, protruding rose brilliant smiling face. I no longer speak, tears in eyes turn a few laps, endure not let them down. After a long time, really tired, my head on my dad fell asleep on my chest. * * * * * * "Bubble gum, it's time to get up!" With a sound rude Shouting, suddenly my plate was overturned. I connected the ground roll sheets which were ga zi ng to the ground: "those which drive the adult dream!" > O C < and dad what are you doing dressed so professional? Impersonating chefs, upstage people?
The next day I go to beauty parlour, because last night didn't get enough rest, black rim of the eye are out. Passed by a jewelry store, French window window the edge has a few beautiful ring, can't help but be in dazzling rays of light to attract, stopped and stood outside the window view. Even though the shop front is not big, but it's really is a boutique, all the jewelry is very beautiful, and the price is in 500 yuan of above. How are so expensive? But is silver ah, was about to leave, suddenly saw a my hand and take the same ring. This ring is in my university of time from the east and the good there. Because it was felt that he took with good-looking, took the greed, threatened him if you don't put the ring to me, he won't ask him to my home to eat dumplings, more not to buy him eat roast duck. This ring once lost once, in east jun back to South Korea's three days later. "Oh! Are you crazy?" Bud I call home, came a scare. I disarray surface such as soil gray to sit down on the ground, the hair at sixes and sevens scattered in his head. The wardrobe all clothes are turned over, pile on the ground. I usually use several bags are over there. It's really like a madman. My mother said to see me like this will make heart disease, to bud opened the door returned to his own room. "I lost the ring." My eyes and lax looking at bud. "The wedding ring ring?? Heavy pressure hand big diamond ring?" In the eye, unless it is a priceless diamond ring, or what also not let me into this virtue. "No, I rob east jun of the silver ring." "No? Then as for you so great? Elder sister, I with REN is sweet? Thought you what big business, a car is run to come over." "Your ya cut the crap do? Please help me find! Can't find today I tell you a piece of teeth die!" "A bitter! The true TMD is enemy! How can I meet you? Get my TMD do mean the matter?" Bud side complain that the side began to help me find. That is the only thing good for me. How can I lost? I always sit on the ground, continue to recall the east CSL give me this ring that call a shed, from love is me a big fun! Finally, until the bud with me a modelling, she just from my bed to sleep in the gaps took out a pieces of silver ring, disarray, the look of the lax pass me. Let the tears into acacia rain (15) I put the ring in hands, cry with suddently like, I really miss the warmth of the east CSL. The ring is I now the hand with the ring. I went into the store. "Boss, how much is this ring?" I pointed to the same with only my hand ring to ask the boss. "One thousand three hundred." Oh, her things are really dead your death expensive. It is the antique, a silver ring also can't so expensive? "Can a discount?" "Minimum eight hundred." The boss looked at me, really want to buy mean, consider for a moment, quoted the price. Although still feel that your, but to buy and the exactly the same ring back to east jun, is my wish. Side pay side think I kui daihatsu, east jun buy this ring, support dead but more than one hundred points, but four years, it is what is antique ah. I but to wrap it in the bag, such as going to the east CSL to Beijing gave him. "YiFei, what are you doing?" Extension extension to call me. "I am in the Internet ah, what things?" I'm online and east CSL to consult the wedding things. "I know, recently you've been avoiding me. But I'm looking for you, there is business." "Business?" "I hope you do a new song conference by guiding stage." "Why me? I'm going to get married next month, on time more nervous." "Delay our wedding! This reward is' Seoul lovesickness rain ', you again come to think of it." "What? You mean the" Seoul lovesickness rain 'as I the reward?" According to my probably estimation, 'Seoul extension lovesickness extension' worth at least twenty million. And this number is enough to do the concert. "Rio extension, you do so, whether want to and I have a break?" "That's right, you are about to get married, I still can how?" Rio if aggressive extension. "Rio extension, you want to BiSi I just freewill?" He went to direct more hate me. "I didn't force you." "If three years ago to you of the feelings between us, there are now one over ten insist, and we can go today?" "If I now insist on?" ... "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk"ash outlet "As long as you nod, east CSL there I will be responsible for compensation. You return to me!" "I can't, I have to GuDongJun feel."
"It... forget it. I eat rice and the rest of the food." Since the "zheng also south" these three words into my life, after all good had become a mess, you don't need this one! I just want to sit back in situ, strong behind somebody pushed me. Although the strength is not very big, but this was a surprise, I didn't stand a body toward the table down go to, result the arm plate hit the ground. "Bang solicitation" voice in the dining hall is especially sharp. Look at spilled a ground rice and become dirty dishes, this time I was hopeless. God! You mean to the whole die me? Am I to flowers garden itself is a mistake? ! "This is not the man not female inferior raw? Really sorry ah, you're blocking the way, so I'm kind 'remind' you once." A voice of pride in my inclined rear rang, I turned, view is a cutting face, that matches the bones to scorn eyes let I can't help but hit a chill. The girl partner will raise the chin, narrowed eyes with the tone of disdain said: "that is! Next time don't stand in the way of the place, and the dining room this place is no loud!" They clearly is intentional. How could I place blocked their way? Facing the sudden humiliation and spite, I at that time cannot make reaction, could gawk bite lips. "Hello! Apologized!" A cold mixed with angry voice cut in the dining room of the loom noise, and the tone is not irresistible momentum. I return to god, found that zheng also south don't know when also follow stood up. His eyes become swift and fierce and cold, and finely hair between his forehead leave traces of indifference. Straight nose that is stubborn lips, at the moment are tightly closed up. That sentence... What he said? The careful exactly like another guy... Is "big demon" zheng also south? Two deliberately provoke girl also stunned in an instant. As if time is the soul of the body, can't say a word. "Hello! Didn't hear my words?" Zheng also south light eyebrows, terrifying vigour further upgrade, "to my friend apologize! Don't think you are the girl I was a bit method all have no! Immediately apologize, I will consider to forgive you!" "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk"ash uk
Listen to the phone "beep" sound, RuanSuXue slightly to frown. She felt JiangShen seemed a little angry, but can't find out reason. She's so sensitive? She put the idea to throw after brain. And then a month, he never called. The second day, RuanSuXue and secretary xiao liu once again return to flight. After nearly ten hours of air travel, two people are ". Xiao liu as complaining about the travel place far away, and RuanSuXue is just the same smile to listen to. "Really sorry! When you in holiday, but it will bother you came all this way to fly to Germany." "It doesn't matter." Her smile, "anyway I at home doing nothing." It's true! Busy accustomed, a month's vacation but don't know how to is good. Her mind was a bit regret what also didn't able to stay at home. But think of that day and JiangShen call, she pour also letting go of a lot of. Two people live together under one roof, it is difficult to avoid embarrassment. She glanced at the plane city, tiny wrinkle up eyebrows. The plane is how one and the same? At the airport has been hovering over the more than ten minutes, but still not to land mean. The other passengers seem to have found what, start small voice chinchin up. XiaoLiuBai face, shaking the RuanSuXue arm, "nguyen miss, why we still don't landing?" She also did not answer, head stewardess voice will spread to come out. "Dear passengers please wait for a while.. The captain asked me to inform you, because some special circumstances, our land will slightly delay." "Special circumstances?" Several passengers were discussing, "what?" Is this time, large fuselage suddenly a severe shock. Just greet passengers suddenly disappeared, just the cabin atmosphere but increasingly nervous. RuanSuXue gently hold his hand, feel cold cold finger. The black car on the highway speed, wind mixed with rain falls near the car, cool a piece of moisture. "Sir, your work very early today!" The driver took one look at the little ChenWang after car mirror said. "Well." JiangShen should be a sound, and no talking. This year's rain special, clearly is winter dry weather, but always find sparks. "Today wife back. Shall I to pick up?" His eyes slightly to a flash, it seems that there is a light knife. A month in a hurry, she should be back tonight. "No." He low calm voice. Chen while driving, and wonder JiangShen today particularly of silence. The car tires in wet highway running smoothly, the car was silent. JiangShen unexplained some be agitated, suddenly speaks a way: "turn on the radio." Chen press radio, news voice suddenly covered the voice of the car. ", according to the latest reports from Frankfurt to take flight 1107 for landing gear mechanical failure, can not be normal landing. Constant Joe airport has cancelled all flights, dispatch personnel ready to flight number 1107 emergency landing, the fire brigade and the medical team has in place. The whole machine two hundred and thirty passengers..." "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk/ash-bootsbooties-c-1.html" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk/ash-bootsbooties-c-1.html"ash boots
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Warm sad
Gönderme zamanı 02/11/2013 07:17:05
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Soliloquize ground to complain about the whole way driver just stepped on the brake, yuen will face a one hundred bill from the open window handed in, carry a smile, "keep the change. Then turned around and open the door, will open the door to the back in the inside of the top in case people accidentally bumped head, devoting to say: "eel, you come." Eel wanted to will hand magazine handed him after they returned to place, it was already late. "Sit in a sit down, even if only for a moment, ok?" His words or let her don't refuse. Her brain to moment lost all thinking. Push 2 box wooden door. Burst into view is nearly two meters tall big birthday cake. Each layer are inserted with 25 a red candle, around 25 star into the candle of heart. Reflects one of the young and pure smiling face, orange candle in all the ups and downs in the breath of continuously trembling, like heart beating in. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to small eel, happy birthday to you!" Birthday song together with the rhythmic symmetrical clap in eel ears ring. Yuen leaned over the eel ear said softly: "eel, happy birthday. Today is your 25 years old of birthday, the house a total of 25 people, a year after the day of your birthday, I will be more for you to invite a man came to your birthday, also can give you a heart more, until we are old very old, old eye, old white head." Yuen to invited to a friend always she introduces, in her eyes, the face is so strange. "The handsome to moss degree of handsome boy is kay, my best friend, a lawyer, bilateral legal pieces, star of tomorrow!" Eel up the line of sight touch kay languishing deep eyes has won't move. That look as if from prelife, or more long, had a magic engaging, few lawyers eyes share of the intelligent and agility, but smooth added a few minutes of soft, soft and tough, like a sorehead poet. Kay look up and down her a, orange small unlined upper garment, pink skirt, and egg yellow Kappa sports shoes and socks, and head pink butterfly hairpin. Readily said: "you look really warm." "Really? Thank you!" Eel the eyes move, slightly chine head, heart like what was fiddling with, very warm, as he said. And this voice, like formed a magnetic field, her all over the body and soul can get rid of its strong adsorption, as if from the silence of the night his heart. "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk/ash-wedge-boots-c-4.html" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk/ash-wedge-boots-c-4.html"ash wedge boots
Chapter VI
New Town — Town and Country It is as much a matter of course to decry the New Town as to exalt the Old; and the most celebrated authorities have picked out this quarter as the very emblem of what is condemnable in architecture. Much may be said, much indeed has been said, upon the text; but to the unsophisticated, who call anything pleasing if it only pleases them, the New Town of Edinburgh seems, in itself, not only gay and airy, but highly picturesque. An old skipper, invincibly ignorant of all theories of the sublime and beautiful, once propounded as his most radiant notion for Paradise: ‘The new town of Edinburgh, with the wind a matter of a point free.’ He has now gone to that sphere where all good tars are promised pleasant weather in the song, and perhaps his thoughts fly somewhat higher. But there are bright and temperate days — with soft air coming from the inland hills, military music sounding bravely from the hollow of the gardens, the flags all waving on the palaces of Princes Street — when I have seen the town through a sort of glory, and shaken hands in sentiment with the old sailor. And indeed, for a man who has been much tumbled round Orcadian skerries, what scene could be more agreeable to witness? On such a day, the valley wears a surprising air of festival. It seems (I do not know how else to put my meaning) as if it were a trifle too good to be true. It is what Paris ought to be. It has the scenic quality that would best set off a life of unthinking, open-air diversion. It was meant by nature for the realisation of the society of comic operas. And you can imagine, if the climate were but towardly, how all the world and his wife would flock into these gardens in the cool of the evening, to hear cheerful music, to sip pleasant drinks, to see the moon rise from behind Arthur’s Seat and shine upon the spires and monuments and the green tree-tops in the valley. Alas! and the next morning the rain is splashing on the windows, and the passengers flee along Princes Street before the galloping squalls. It cannot be denied that the original design was faulty and short-sighted, and did not fully profit by the capabilities of the situation. The architect was essentially a town bird, and he laid out the modern city with a view to street scenery, and to street scenery alone. The country did not enter into his plan; he had never lifted his eyes to the hills. If he had so chosen, every street upon the northern slope might have been a noble terrace and commanded an extensive and beautiful view. But the space has been too closely built; many of the houses front the wrong way, intent, like the Man with the Muck-Rake, on what is not worth observation, and standing discourteously back-foremost in the ranks; and, in a word, it is too often only from attic-windows, or here and there at a crossing, that you can get a look beyond the city upon its diversified surroundings. But perhaps it is all the more surprising, to come suddenly on a corner, and see a perspective of a mile or more of falling street, and beyond that woods and villas, and a blue arm of sea, and the hills upon the farther side. Fergusson, our Edinburgh poet, Burns’s model, once saw a butterfly at the Town Cross; and the sight inspired him with a worthless little ode. This painted country man, the dandy of the rose garden, looked far abroad in such a humming neighbourhood; and you can fancy what moral considerations a youthful poet would supply. But the incident, in a fanciful sort of way, is characteristic of the place. Into no other city does the sight of the country enter so far; if you do not meet a butterfly, you shall certainly catch a glimpse of far-away trees upon your walk; and the place is full of theatre tricks in the way of scenery. You peep under an arch, you descend stairs that look as if they would land you in a cellar, you turn to the back-window of a grimy tenement in a lane:— and behold! you are face-to-face with distant and bright prospects. You turn a corner, and there is the sun going down into the Highland hills. You look down an alley, and see ships tacking for the Baltic. For the country people to see Edinburgh on her hill-tops, is one thing; it is another for the citizen, from the thick of his affairs, to overlook the country. It should be a genial and ameliorating influence in life; it should prompt good thoughts and remind him of Nature’s unconcern: that he can watch from day to day, as he trots officeward, how the Spring green brightens in the wood or the field grows black under a moving ploughshare. I have been tempted, in this connexion, to deplore the slender faculties of the human race, with its penny-whistle of a voice, its dull cars, and its narrow range of sight. If you could see as people are to see in heaven, if you had eyes such as you can fancy for a superior race, if you could take clear note of the objects of vision, not only a few yards, but a few miles from where you stand:— think how agreeably your sight would be entertained, how pleasantly your thoughts would be diversified, as you walked the Edinburgh streets! For you might pause, in some business perplexity, in the midst of the city traffic, and perhaps catch the eye of a shepherd as he sat down to breathe upon a heathery shoulder of the Pentlands; or perhaps some urchin, clambering in a country elm, would put aside the leaves and show you his flushed and rustic visage; or a fisher racing seawards, with the tiller under his elbow, and the sail sounding in the wind, would fling you a salutation from between Anst’er and the May. To be old is not the same thing as to be picturesque; nor because the Old Town bears a strange physiognomy, does it at all follow that the New Town shall look commonplace. Indeed, apart from antique houses, it is curious how much description would apply commonly to either. The same sudden accidents of ground, a similar dominating site above the plain, and the same superposition of one rank of society over another, are to be observed in both. Thus, the broad and comely approach to Princes Street from the east, lined with hotels and public offices, makes a leap over the gorge of the Low Calton; if you cast a glance over the parapet, you look direct into that sunless and disreputable confluent of Leith Street; and the same tall houses open upon both thoroughfares. This is only the New Town passing overhead above its own cellars; walking, so to speak, over its own children, as is the way of cities and the human race. But at the Dean Bridge, you may behold a spectacle of a more novel order. The river runs at the bottom of a deep valley, among rocks and between gardens; the crest of either bank is occupied by some of the most commodious streets and crescents in the modern city; and a handsome bridge unites the two summits. Over this, every afternoon, private carriages go spinning by, and ladies with card-cases pass to and fro about the duties of society. And yet down below, you may still see, with its mills and foaming weir, the little rural village of Dean. Modern improvement has gone overhead on its high-level viaduct; and the extended city has cleanly overleapt, and left unaltered, what was once the summer retreat of its comfortable citizens. Every town embraces hamlets in its growth; Edinburgh herself has embraced a good few; but it is strange to see one still surviving — and to see it some hundreds of feet below your path. Is it Torre del Greco that is built above buried Herculaneum? Herculaneum was dead at least; but the sun still shines upon the roofs of Dean; the smoke still rises thriftily from its chimneys; the dusty miller comes to his door, looks at the gurgling water, hearkens to the turning wheel and the birds about the shed, and perhaps whistles an air of his own to enrich the symphony — for all the world as if Edinburgh were still the old Edinburgh on the Castle Hill, and Dean were still the quietest of hamlets buried a mile or so in the green country. It is not so long ago since magisterial David Hume lent the authority of his example to the exodus from the Old Town, and took up his new abode in a street which is still (so oddly may a jest become perpetuated) known as Saint David Street. Nor is the town so large but a holiday schoolboy may harry a bird’s nest within half a mile of his own door. There are places that still smell of the plough in memory’s nostrils. Here, one had heard a blackbird on a hawthorn; there, another was taken on summer evenings to eat strawberries and cream; and you have seen a waving wheatfield on the site of your present residence. The memories of an Edinburgh boy are but partly memories of the town. I look back with delight on many an escalade of garden walls; many a ramble among lilacs full of piping birds; many an exploration in obscure quarters that were neither town nor country; and I think that both for my companions and myself, there was a special interest, a point of romance, and a sentiment as of foreign travel, when we hit in our excursions on the butt-end of some former hamlet, and found a few rustic cottages embedded among streets and squares. The tunnel to the Scotland Street Station, the sight of the trains shooting out of its dark maw with the two guards upon the brake, the thought of its length and the many ponderous edifices and open thoroughfares above, were certainly things of paramount impressiveness to a young mind. It was a subterranean passage, although of a larger bore than we were accustomed to in Ainsworth’s novels; and these two words, ‘subterreanean passage,’ were in themselves an irresistible attraction, and seemed to bring us nearer in spirit to the heroes we loved and the black rascals we secretly aspired to imitate. To scale the Castle Rock from West Princes Street Gardens, and lay a triumphal hand against the rampart itself, was to taste a high order of romantic pleasure. And there are other sights and exploits which crowd back upon my mind under a very strong illumination of remembered pleasure. But the effect of not one of them all will compare with the discoverer’s joy, and the sense of old Time and his slow changes on the face of this earth, with which I explored such corners as Cannonmills or Water Lane, or the nugget of cottages at Broughton Market. They were more rural than the open country, and gave a greater impression of antiquity than the oldest Land upon the High Street. They too, like Fergusson’s butterfly, had a quaint air of having wandered far from their own place; they looked abashed and homely, with their gables and their creeping plants, their outside stairs and running mill-streams; there were corners that smelt like the end of the country garden where I spent my Aprils; and the people stood to gossip at their doors, as they might have done in Colinton or Cramond. In a great measure we may, and shall, eradicate this haunting flavour of the country. The last elm is dead in Elm Row; and the villas and the workmen’s quarters spread apace on all the borders of the city. We can cut down the trees; we can bury the grass under dead paving-stones; we can drive brisk streets through all our sleepy quarters; and we may forget the stories and the playgrounds of our boyhood. But we have some possessions that not even the infuriate zeal of builders can utterly abolish and destroy. Nothing can abolish the hills, unless it be a cataclysm of nature which shall subvert Edinburgh Castle itself and lay all her florid structures in the dust. And as long as we have the hills and the Firth, we have a famous heritage to leave our children. Our windows, at no expense to us, are most artfully stained to represent a landscape. And when the Spring comes round, and the hawthorns begin to flower, and the meadows to smell of young grass, even in the thickest of our streets, the country hilltops find out a young man’s eyes, and set his heart beating for travel and pure air. "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk/ash-wedge-sneakers-c-5.html" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk/ash-wedge-sneakers-c-5.html"ash wedge sneakers
There are certain resemblances between the affair of Grimaldi’s brother and the disappearance and reappearance of Emily Weston at Stafford in the years 1849–50. Emily Weston was the only child of Samuel Weston, a shopkeeper and dealer in that pleasant town, which differs so happily from those other Staffordshire towns which make up the Potteries. Weston’s shop was somewhere in that back quarter of Stafford which is near the eighteenth century theatre; a very modest looking place, as I recollect seeing it about twenty-five years ago, with a bulging window divided into small squares of glass. Within the stock was various: sides of bacon, large cheeses, mops and brooms, clusters of tallow candles hanging from a beam in the ceiling, rat-traps, tea in canisters, and some sacks of flour; in fact, as the old man who was my informant described it, the characteristic general shop of small country places, where, oddly enough, very solid sums of money were once made. Here, then, behind the little dark shop in the narrow street, lived Weston, his daughter Emily, and an old servant, who had been in the family for forty years. In 1849, Emily was twenty-three years old, and was considered to be, not exactly handsome, but decidedly attractive. She bore the best of characters, sang in the choir of the parish church, and was supposed to look favourably on the addresses of the son of the principal chemist of the town, named Elgie. One night in December, 1849, she told her father that she was going to a choir practice that was to be held in the church at nine o’clock. There was to be a new anthem for Christmas Day, “Unto us a Child,” and the organist was rather anxious as to the solos. So the supper — bread, cheese, butter, and an openwork raspberry tart — was served at 8.30 instead of 9, the usual hour; and at five minutes to 9 Emily started for the church, which is about five minutes’ walk from Weston’s shop. Mary Williams, the old servant, was to call for her at 10 o’clock. But Mary was delayed by some household business at the last moment, and it was eight or ten minutes past ten when she got to the church. The windows were all dark, and the rector was locking the door. The servant said she supposed Miss Emily had gone home by the other way. “Indeed,” said the rector, “she has not been at practice to-night. We feared she was ill. Do you say that she started from her home to come to practice?”. . . . Emily Weston did not come home that night. No trace of her was to be found. A woman said she thought that a person who passed her close to the church soon after nine was Emily; but the lighting of Stafford in those days was far from brilliant, and the veil that was then generally worn made identification difficult, if not impossible. Week after week went by; still no Emily. Her father offered a reward of ￡100 to anyone who would find the girl, living or dead: there was no result. The police seemed helpless in the matter. It was almost a year — a year within three days, I believe — before Emily Weston returned, as her father always declared. It was late at night — for that household — actually about half-past ten, when old Weston, who had been sitting up over some accounts, heard a gentle tapping at the door. Mary Williams, the servant, had been in bed for half an hour or more, and Weston went to the shop door and slowly unbolted, unchained, and unlocked it. While he did so he had put down the candle on the counter. By the dim light he could see a woman standing on the doorstep. He took the candle and held it up, peering at the figure before him. He saw that the woman was richly dressed in silk and furs; but he did not recognise her. “Who are you?” said the old man, “And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you? It’s rather late at night.” The woman raised her veil. “Father,” she exclaimed, “don’t you know me? It’s Emily.” “Even then,” the old man said afterwards, “I didn’t recognise her for a moment. Everything she wore was so splendid, and pearls and diamonds and all, that I could scarcely believe it was my Emily. But then when she smiled at me, I knew her to be sure, and brought her in, and lit the other candle in the parlour, and began to ask her all the questions I could think of. And all she would say was: ‘Wait a bit, father, wait a bit. I’ll tell you all about it; but I’ve come a very long way, and I feel tired.’” Samuel Weston was overwhelmed with joy at his daughter’s return. He was so excited, as he said, that he did not know what to do with himself. He could “scarce believe his eyes,” and insisted on knocking up Mr. and Mrs. Dales, neighbours and old friends, who lived two doors off. According to his account, when he at last brought Mr. Dales to his bedroom window, he called out that he and his wife must dress and come down at once, as Emily had come back. The two friends came down at length, heavy with sleep, and “mazed” as they said; and Mr. Weston opened a bottle of some very old sherry that he kept for great festivals, and the party sat together far into the night. At last the visitors went back to their beds, and Mr. Weston kissed his daughter good night at her bedroom door. She told him that he should hear everything in the morning. Now it seems odd that Weston, who knocked up the Dales, should not have roused the old servant. So it was, however; and the next morning when the old man came down to breakfast, he found the table laid for one, as usual. “What are you about, Mary?” he said. “Don’t you know that Emily has come back? Lay her place, and tell her that breakfast is ready.” Old Mary Williams shrieked and fainted. Mr. Weston rushed upstairs, and knocked at; his daughter’s door. There was no answer, and when he went into the room it was empty. The bed had not been slept in. And Emily Weston was never seen again. And here is an odd circumstance. The Dales, the people who were roused from sleep by Weston, declared that to the best of their recollection, the old man did not mention his daughter. They thought he said, “I have got somebody you would like to see,” but were not sure. They remembered going round and seeing a beautiful lady, beautifully dressed, who was very pleasant and talked about a wonderful country a long way off where she had been; but they didn’t think it was Emily Weston, though as Mrs. Dales said, “There was a look of her.” That is all. There is an explanation, but I leave that to the ingenuity of the reader. "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk"cheap ash
Yours three elderly, two see not tire of affective cotton, July 7th bridge 100 days together, looking at the other end of the old year. -- written on July 7th [ a year ], our song The first encounter, the spring period, pink petals, in the breeze, dancing. Every time pass by your window, heart, always think back, a curtain of the throbbing, in such a scenario, quietly planted. Walking in the fireworks in March of the pen, to tell endless lovesickness, pale blue sky, let you drop, the flow in the blood. With the fusion of sincerity and blood, through the exchange of the spring and summer, finally ushered in the first July 7th acquaintance with you, the legend of Valentine's day. That year, that day, I stood in the distance, overlooking the city you live in, cheeks like spinning general pain, cold wind of their own, should be what kind of? Happy or sad? This holiday, the man on the street, happy like flowers, ears melody, was " no lover's Valentine's day ". Suddenly reminded of what you say, no lover's Valentine's day, more to be happy. But, my dear, you are not, how can I be happy? You and me, across the mountains and water, no matter how hope, hope not to the end. If, can I a pair of wings, a pair can be across the numerous hills and streams of wings, can fly to your eyes, to accompany you, the number of stars in the sky, so much the better. That year, our love, is a song, a song forever endless song, in the night sky, in the sunset, in the air, there are great everywhere. Care and regards every day between you and me, is the most intimate warmth, also has the good night, content information as the day's most beautiful words, placed in the chest, heating. So, every night, to these as a habit, in the course of time, this love, then in time, settle down. The first July 7th, first across the river to accompany you to a holiday, only wish, that is, pray for good quiet time. Do not want to let you by wind waves, don't want to hear you crying silently, don't want to see you walk in the black and white edge, these for me, all will suffocate. Happy, beloved, even if this is just for me. Listen to the music, listening to your songs, I saw his old age when we, sitting in front of the cherry tree, humming a minor, that time of I, still make you cry. This year July 7th, I looked across the castle, and you Chang huan. [ a year ], our love Love in the July 7th, the feeling in the heart, if you remember, at that time, we are in? Spring summer autumn winter again in front of a circle, you disappeared for sixty days, but suddenly appear, moment, let me know. I thought, memory, not like you, I would have been very good, at least without a tie in the world day, how be leisurely and carefree, but, I am wrong, even subversion of the world, you are still in my heart. Some people, no matter how exhausted efforts to forget, forget all, just because of love too deep, too really, input. It is a year of July 7th, this time, how should I accompany you? Over a year to write the text, and doubled last year to write phrases, watching, in the mind of the scene side emerges, this year, we have missed? The on-again days, let the nerve enters the state of tension, dare not have the slightest relaxation, fear, perhaps, a turn to you, is the life of a stranger. You are always the stranger, I dare not touch the word, for never in person, there is never in practice, if the sink, our tomorrow, don't really know where. Or compromise, if not down, if you want to get a more than time for a little emotional, I can only be made by you, in my world of import, as long as the outcome is good, then, how frustrating, is worth it. At the time of the July 7th, I stood in the pedestrian behind, too. The same streets, the same melody, song of Meng Tingwei thoroughly shattered a glimmer of hope, but you said, will always be the? Now, you leave me, in addition to a memory, what? I day and night expecting a year July 7th, able to meet with you, hand in hand under the Milky way, listen to laugh the birds, the breeze whispers, then, Zhenzhe yilianyoumeng sleep, just, fell empty hope, remains a piece of sarcasm. Dear, this bleak season, how can you have the heart to leave me alone? [ a year ], our story Every story in the end, there will be the outcome, or sad, or happy. This pen to write about our third July 7th, haven't had time to imagine, everything is ok. If not before the end of the day, to see colleagues holding a bunch of red roses, maybe I will forget this holiday. She stood in front of me, smile very brilliant, happiness so I can not help but imagine you tomorrow at this time mood, is it right? Also like her, a little touched, plus a little bit of happiness, so, enough. Someone put the Valentine's day into a family festival, even Valentine's day, then, today is still time? Walk in the street, the supermarket music, or the song, this time I was sitting on the steps, the number of stars. Passers-by cast a strange look, by the neon city block, the heart of my eyes only on the edge, this is your city. The number of tired, he closed his eyes, feeling the breeze gently, until a few tears of laughter. With a calm heart, to third Valentine's day, although you are not around, voice but it came through, I heard, you laugh, there is the taste of happiness judgment. Seems to be returning this feeling, she finally relieved a, not really meet, not really to be. The concentration of many, I took your blessing up on the stage. Around three cycle, or to return to the original appearance, though you and I are not their own, but with the growth experience and temper, in their life -- more than a heavy, our love, in the fleeting, unabated. No meeting sentimental, more is a real. Three years ago the opposite, back after three years, the time to let each other know how to cherish, if in the vast sea of separated, please remember, I cannot escape the doom your eyebrows. Third Valentine's day, fortunately, we are still together, taking advantage of the excited energy, send a pure white cards : whenever, I will accompany you, even if is three years and three years of wind and rain, the heart together, love will be together. "http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk" mce_href="http://www.ashfootwearr.co.uk"cheap ash
It was a great affair for the whole household when, every three months, Hubertine prepared the "lye" for the wash. A woman was hired to aid them, the Mother Gabet, as she was called, and for four days all embroidery was laid aside, while Angelique took her part in the unusual work, making of it a perfect amusement, as she soaped and rinsed the clothes in the clean water of the Chevrotte. The linen when taken from the ashes was wheeled to the Clos-Marie, through the little gate of communication in the garden. There the days were spent in the open air and the sunshine. "I will do the washing this time, mother, for it is the greatest of delights to me." And gaily laughing, with her sleeves drawn up above her elbows, flourishing the beetle, Angelique struck the clothes most heartily in the pleasure of such healthy exercise. It was hard work, but she thoroughly enjoyed it, and only stopped occasionally to say a few words or to show her shiny face covered with foam. "Look, mother! This makes my arms strong. It does me a world of good." The Chevrotte crossed the field diagonally, at first drowsily, then its stream became very rapid as it was thrown in great bubbles over a pebbly descent. It came from the garden of the Bishop, through a species of floodgate left at the foot of the wall, and at the other end it disappeared under an arched vault at the corner of the Hotel Voincourt, where it was swallowed up in the earth, to reappear two hundred yards farther on, as it passed along the whole length of the Rue Basse to the Ligneul, into which it emptied itself. Therefore it was very necessary to watch the linen constantly, for, run as fast as possible, every piece that was once let go was almost inevitably lost. "Mother, wait, wait a little! I will put this heavy stone on the napkins. We shall then see if the river can carry them away. The little thief!" She placed the stone firmly, then returned to draw another from the old, tumble-down mill, enchanted to move about and to fatigue herself; and, although she severely bruised her finger, she merely moistened it a little, saying, "Oh! that is nothing." During the day the poor people who sheltered themselves in the ruins went out to ask for charity from the passers-by on the highways. So the Clos was quite deserted. It was a delicious, fresh solitude, with its clusters of pale-green willows, its high poplar-trees, and especially its verdure, its overflowing of deep-rooted wild herbs and grasses, so high that they came up to one's shoulders. A quivering silence came from the two neighbouring parks, whose great trees barred the horizon. After three o'clock in the afternoon the shadow of the Cathedral was lengthened out with a calm sweetness and a perfume of evaporated incense. Angelique continued to beat the linen harder still, with all the force of her well-shaped white arms. "Oh, mother dear! You can have no idea how hungry I shall be this evening! . . . Ah! you know that you have promised to give me a good strawberry-cake." On the day of the rinsing, Angelique was quite alone. The _mere_ Gabet, suffering from a sudden, severe attack of sciatica, had not been able to come as usual, and Hubertine was kept at home by other household cares. Kneeling in her little box half filled with straw, the young girl took the pieces one by one, shook them for a long time in the swiftly-rolling stream, until the water was no longer dimmed, but had become as clear as crystal. She did not hurry at all, for since the morning she had been tormented by a great curiosity, having seen, to her astonishment, an old workman in a white blouse, who was putting up a light scaffolding before the window of the Chapel Hautecoeur. Could it be that they were about to repair the stained-glass panes? There was, it must be confessed, great need of doing so. Several pieces were wanting in the figure of Saint George, and in other places, where in the course of centuries panes that had been broken had been replaced by ordinary glass. Still, all this was irritating to her. She was so accustomed to the gaps of the saint who was piercing the dragon with his sword, and of the royal princess as she led the conquered beast along with her scarf, that she already mourned as if one had the intention of mutilating them. It was sacrilege to think of changing such old, venerable things. But when she returned to the field after her lunch, all her angry feelings passed away immediately; for a second workman was upon the staging, a young man this time, who also wore a white blouse. And she recognised him! It was he! Her hero! Gaily, without any embarrassment, Angelique resumed her place on her knees on the straw of her box. Then, with her wrists bare, she put her hands in the deep, clear water, and recommenced shaking the linen back and forth. Yes, it was he--tall, slight, a blonde, with his fine beard and his hair curled like that of a god, his complexion as fresh as when she had first seen him under the white shadow of the moonlight. Since it was he, there was nothing to be feared for the window; were he to touch it, he would only embellish it. And it was no disappointment to her whatever to find him in this blouse, a workman like herself, a painter on glass, no doubt. On the contrary, this fact made her smile, so absolutely certain was she of the eventual fulfillment of her dream of royal fortune. Now, it was simply an appearance, a beginning. What good would it do her to know who he was, from whence he came, or whither he was going? Some morning he would prove to be that which she expected him to be. A shower of gold would stream from the roof of the Cathedral, a triumphal march would break forth in the distant rumblings of the organ, and all would come true. She did not stay to ask herself how he could always be there, day and night. Yet it was evident either that he must live in one of the neighbouring houses, or he must pass by the lane des Guerdaches, which ran by the side of the Bishop's park to the Rue Magloire. Then a charming hour passed by. She bent forward, she rinsed her linen, her face almost touching the fresh water; but each time she took a different piece she raised her head, and cast towards the church a look, in which from the agitation of her heart, was a little good-natured malice. And he, upon the scaffolding, with an air of being closely occupied in examining the state of the window, turned towards her, glancing at her sideways, and evidently much disturbed whenever she surprised him doing so. It was astonishing how quickly he blushed, how dark red his face became. At the slightest emotion, whether of anger or interest, all the blood in his veins seemed to mount to his face. He had flashing eyes, which showed will; yet he was so diffident, that, when he knew he was being criticised, he was embarrassed as a little child, did not seem to know what to do with his hands, and stammered out his orders to the old man who accompanied him. As for Angelique, that which delighted her most, as she refreshed her arms in this turbulent water, was to picture him innocent like herself, ignorant of the world, and with an equally intense desire to have a taste of life. There was no need of his telling to others who he was, for had not invisible messengers and unseen lips made known to her that he was to be her own? She looked once more, just as he was turning his head; and so the minutes passed, and it was delicious. Suddenly she saw that he jumped from the staging, then that he walked backwards quite a distance through the grass, as if to take a certain position from which he could examine the window more easily. But she could not help smiling, so evident was it that he simply wished to approach her. He had made a firm decision, like a man who risks everything, and now it was touching as well as comical to see that he remained standing a few steps from her, his back towards her, not daring to move, fearing that he had been too hasty in coming as far as he had done. For a moment she thought he would go back again to the chapel-window as he had come from it, without paying any attention to her. However, becoming desperate, at last he turned, and as at that moment she was glancing in his direction, their eyes met, and they remained gazing fixedly at each other. They were both deeply confused; they lost their self-possession, and might never have been able to regain it, had not a dramatic incident aroused them. "Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed the young girl, in distress. In her excitement, a dressing-sacque, which she had been rinsing unconsciously, had just escaped her, and the stream was fast bearing it away. Yet another minute and it would disappear round the corner of the wall of the Voincourt park, under the arched vault through which the Chevrotte passed. There were several seconds of anxious waiting. He saw at once what had happened, and rushed forward. But the current, leaping over the pebbles, carried this sacque, which seemed possessed, as it went along, much more rapidly than he. He stooped, thinking he had caught it, but took up only a handful of soapy foam. Twice he failed. The third time he almost fell. Then, quite vexed, with a brave look as if doing something at the peril of his life, he went into the water, and seized the garment just as it was about being drawn under the ground. Angelique, who until now had followed the rescue anxiously, quite upset, as if threatened by a great misfortune, was so relieved that she had an intense desire to laugh. This feeling was partly nervous, it is true, but not entirely so. For was not this the adventure of which she had so often dreamed? This meeting on the border of a lake; the terrible danger from which she was to be saved by a young man, more beautiful than the day? Saint George, the tribune, the warrior! These were simply united in one, and he was this painter of stained glass, this young workman in his white blouse! When she saw him coming back, his feet wet through and through, as he held the dripping camisole awkwardly in his hand, realising the ridiculous side of the energy he had employed in saving it from the waves, she was obliged to bite her tongue to check the outburst of gaiety which seemed almost to choke her. He forgot himself as he looked at her. She was like a most adorable child in this restrained mirth with which all her youth seemed to vibrate. Splashed with water, her arms almost chilled by the stream, she seemed to send forth from herself the purity and clearness of these living springs which rushed from the mossy woods. She was an impersonation of health, joy, and freshness, in the full sunlight. One could easily fancy that she might be a careful housekeeper and a queen withal as she was there, in her working dress, with her slender waist, her regal neck, her oval face, such as one reads of in fairy-tales. And he did not know how to give her back the linen, he found her exquisite, so perfect a representation of the beauty of the art he loved. It enraged him, in spite of himself, that he should have the air of an idiot, as he plainly saw the effort she made not to laugh. But he was forced to do something, so at last he gave her back the sacque. Then Angelique realised that if she were to open her mouth and try to thank him, she would shout. Poor fellow! She sympathised with him and pitied him. But it was irresistible; she was happy, and needed to give expression to it; she must yield to the gaiety with which her heart overflowed. It was such lovely weather, and all life was so beautiful! At last she thought she might speak, wishing simply to say: "Thank you, Monsieur." But the wish to laugh had returned, and made her stammer, interrupting her at each word. It was a loud, cheery laugh, a sonorous outpouring of pearly notes, which sang sweetly to the crystalline accompaniment of the Chevrotte. The young man was so disconcerted that he could find nothing to say. His usually pale face had become very red, the timid, childlike expression of his eyes had changed into a fiery one, like that of an eagle, and he moved away quickly. He disappeared with the old workman, and even then she continued to laugh as she bent over the water, again splashing herself as she shook the clothes hither and thither, rejoicing in the brightness of the happy day. On the morrow he came an hour earlier. But at five o'clock in the morning the linen, which had been dripping all night, was spread out on the grass. There was a brisk wind, which was excellent for drying. But in order that the different articles need not be blown away, they were kept in place by putting little pebbles on their four corners. The whole wash was there, looking of a dazzling whiteness among the green herbage, having a strong odour of plants about it, and making the meadow as if it had suddenly blossomed out into a snowy covering of daisies. When Angelique came to look at it after breakfast, she was distressed, for so strong had become the gusts of wind that all threatened to be carried away. Already a sheet had started, and several napkins had gone to fasten themselves to the branches of a willow. She fortunately caught them, but then the handkerchiefs began to fly. There was no one to help her; she was so frightened that she lost all her presence of mind. When she tried to spread out the sheet again, she had a regular battle, for she was quite lost in it, as it covered her with a great crackling sound. Through all the noise of the wind she heard a voice saying, "Mademoiselle, do you wish me to help you?" It was he, and immediately she cried to him, with no other thought than her pre-occupation as a good housewife: "Of course I wish it. Come and help me, then. Take the end over there, nearest to you. Hold it firm!" The sheet, which they stretched out with their strong arms, flapped backwards and forwards like a sail. At last they succeeded in putting it on the ground, and then placed upon it much heavier stones than before. And now that, quite conquered, it sank quietly down, neither of them thought of leaving their places, but remained on their knees at the opposite corners, separated by this great piece of pure white linen. She smiled, but this time without malice. It was a silent message of thanks. He became by degrees a little bolder. "My name is Felicien." "And mine is Angelique." "I am a painter on glass, and have been charged to repair the stained-glass window of the chapel here." "I live over there with my father and mother, and I am an embroiderer of church vestments." The wind, which continued to be strong under the clear blue sky, carried away their words, lashed them with its purifying breath in the midst of the warm sunshine in which they were bathed. They spoke of things which they already knew, as if simply for the pleasure of talking. "Is the window, then, to be replaced?" "No! oh no! it will be so well repaired that the new part cannot be distinguished from the old. I love it quite as much as you do." "Oh! it is indeed true that I love it! I have already embroidered a Saint George, but it was not so beautiful as this one." "Oh, not so beautiful! How can you say that? I have seen it, if it is the Saint George on the chasuble which the Abbot Cornille wore last Sunday. It is a marvellous thing." She blushed with pleasure, but quickly turned the conversation, as she exclaimed: "Hurry and put another stone on the left corner of the sheet, or the wind will carry it away from us again." He made all possible haste, weighed down the linen, which had been in great commotion, like the wings of a great wounded bird trying its best to fly away. Finding that this time it would probably keep its place, the two young people rose up, and now Angelique went through the narrow, green paths between the pieces of linen, glancing at each one, while he followed her with an equally busy look, as if preoccupied by the possible loss of a dish-towel or an apron. All this seemed quite natural to them both. So she continued to chatter away freely and artlessly, as she told of her daily life and explained her tastes. "For my part, I always wish that everything should be in its place. In the morning I am always awakened at the same hour by the striking of the cuckoo-clock in the workroom; and whether it is scarcely daylight or not, I dress myself as quickly as possible; my shoes and stockings are here, my soap and all articles of toilette there--a true mania for order. Yet you may well believe that I was not born so! Oh no! On the contrary, I was the most careless person possible. Mother was obliged to repeat to me the same words over and over again, that I might not leave my things in every corner of the house, for I found it easier to scatter them about. And now, when I am at work from morning to evening, I can never do anything right if my chair is not in the same place, directly opposite the light, Fortunately, I am neither right nor left handed, but can use both hands equally well at embroidering, which is a great help to me, for it is not everyone who can do that. Then, I adore flowers, but I cannot keep a bouquet near me without having a terrible headache. Violets alone I can bear, and that is surprising. But their odour seems to calm me, and at the least indisposition I have only need to smell them and I am at once cured." He was enraptured while listening to her prattle. He revelled in the beautiful ring of her voice, which had an extremely penetrating, prolonged charm; and he must have been peculiarly sensitive to this human music, for the caressing inflection on certain words moistened his eyelids. Suddenly returning to her household cares she exclaimed: "Oh, now the shirts will soon be dry!" Then, in the unconscious and simple need of making herself known, she continued her confidences: "For colouring, the white is always beautiful, is it not? I tire at times of blue, of red, and of all other shades; but white is a constant joy, of which I am never weary. There is nothing in it to trouble you; on the contrary, you would like to lose yourself in it. We had a white cat, with yellow spots, which I painted white. It did very well for a while, but it did not last long. Listen a minute. Mother does not know it, but I keep all the waste bits of white silk, and have a drawer full of them, for just nothing except the pleasure of looking at them, and smoothing them over from time to time. And I have another secret, but this is a very serious one! When I wake up, there is every morning near my bed a great, white object, which gently flies away." He did not smile, but appeared firmly to believe her. Was not all she said, in her simple way, quite natural? A queen in the magnificence of her courtly surroundings could not have conquered him so quickly. She had, in the midst of this white linen on the green grass, a charming, grand air, happy and supreme, which touched him to the heart, with an ever-increasing power. He was completely subdued. She was everything to him from this moment. He would follow her to the last day of his life, in the worship of her light feet, her delicate hands, of her whole being, adorable and perfect as a dream. She continued to walk before him, with a short quick step, and he followed her closely, suffocated by a thought of the happiness he scarcely dared hope might come to him. But another sudden gust of wind came up, and there was a perfect flight into the distance of cambric collars and cuffs, of neckerchiefs and chemisettes of muslin, which, as they disappeared, seemed like a flock of white birds knocked about by the tempest. Angelique began to run. "Oh dear! What shall I do? You will have to come again and help me. Oh dear!" They both rushed forward. She caught a kerchief on the borders of the Chevrotte. He had already saved two chemisettes which he found in the midst of some high thistles. One by one the cuffs and the collars were retaken. But in the course of their running at full speed, the flying folds of her skirt had at several different times brushed against him, and each time his face became suddenly red, and his heart beat violently. In his turn, he touched her face accidentally, as she jumped to recover the last fichu, which he had carelessly let go of. She was startled and stood quietly, but breathing more quickly. She joked no longer; her laugh sounded less clear, and she was not tempted to ridicule this great awkward, but most attractive fellow. The feminine nature so recently awakened in her softened her almost to tears, and with the feeling of inexplicable tenderness, which overpowered her, was mingled a half-fear. What was the matter with her that she was less gay, and that she was so overcome by this delicious pang? When he held out the kerchief to her, their hands, by chance, touched for a moment. They trembled, as they looked at each other inquiringly. Then she drew back quickly, and for several seconds seemed not to know what she should do under the extraordinary circumstances which had just occurred. At last she started. Gathering up all the smaller articles of linen in her arms, and leaving the rest, she turned towards her home. Felicien then wished to speak . . . "Oh, I beg your pardon. . . . I pray you to----" But the wind, which had greatly increased, cut off his words. In despair he looked at her as she flew along, as if carried away by the blast. She ran and ran, in and out, among the white sheets and tablecloths, under the oblique, pale golden rays of the sun. Already the shadow of the Cathedral seemed to envelop her, and she was on the point of entering her own garden by the little gate which separated it from the Clos, without having once glanced behind her. But on the threshold she turned quickly, as if seized with a kind impulse, not wishing that he should think she was angry, and confused, but smiling, she called out: "Thank you. Thank you very much." Did she wish to say that she was grateful to him for having helped her in recovering the linen? Or was it for something else? She disappeared, and the gate was shut after her. And he remained alone in the middle of the field, under the great regular gusts, which continued to rage, although the sky was still clear and pure. The elms in the Bishop's garden rustled with a long, billowy sound, and a loud voice seemed to clamour through the terraces and the flying buttresses of the Cathedral. But he heard only the light flapping of a little morning cap, tied to a branch of a lilac bush, as if it were a bouquet, and which belonged to her. From that date, each time that Angelique opened her window she saw Felicien over there in the Clos-Marie. He passed days in the field, having the chapel window as an excuse for doing so, on which, however, the work did not advance the least in the world. For hours he would forget himself behind a cluster of bushes, where, stretched out on the grass, he watched through the leaves. And it was the greatest of pleasures to smile at each other every morning and evening. She was so happy that she asked for nothing more. There would not be another general washing for three months, so, until then, the little garden-gate would seldom be open. But three months would pass very quickly, and if they could see each other daily, was not that bliss enough? What, indeed, could be more charming than to live in this way, thinking during the day of the evening look, and during the night of the glance of the early morrow? She existed only in the hope of that desired moment; its joy filled her life. Moreover, what good would there be in approaching each other and in talking together? Were they not constantly becoming better acquainted without meeting? Although at a distance, they understood each other perfectly; each penetrated into the other's innermost thoughts with the closest intimacy. At last, they became so filled one with the other that they could not close their eyes without seeing before them, with an astonishing clearness of detail, the image of their new friend; so, in reality, they were never separated. It was a constant surprise to Angelique that she had unbosomed herself at once to Felicien. At their first meeting she had confided in him, had told him everything about her habits, her tastes, and the deepest secrets of her heart. He, more silent, was called Felicien, and that was all she knew. Perhaps it was quite right that it should be so; the woman giving everything, and the man holding himself back as a stranger. She had no premature curiosity. She continued to smile at the thought of things which would certainly be realised. So for her, that of which she was ignorant counted for nothing. The only important fact in her mind was the intimacy between them, which united them, little by little, apart from the world. She knew nothing about him, yet she was so well acquainted with his nature that she could read his thoughts in a simple look or smile. He, her hero, had come as she always said he would. She had at once recognised him, and they loved each other. So they enjoyed most thoroughly this true possession from a distance. They were certainly encouraged by the new discoveries they made. She had long, slender hands, roughened a little at the ends of the fingers by her constant use of the needle, but he adored them. She noticed that his feet were small, and was proud of the fact. Everything about him flattered her; she was grateful to him for being so handsome; and she was overcome with joy the evening that she found his beard to be of a lighter shade than his hair, which fact gave a greater softness to his smile. He went away transported when, one morning, as she leaned over the balcony, he saw a little red spot on her pretty neck. Their hearts being thus laid open, new treasures were daily found. Certainly the proud and frank manner in which she opened her window showed that, even in her ignorance as a little embroiderer, she had the royal bearing of a princess. In the same way she knew that he was good, from seeing how lightly he walked over the herbs and the grass. Around them was a radiance of virtues and graces from the first hour of their meeting. Each interview had its special charm. It seemed to them as if their felicity in seeing each other could never be exhausted. Nevertheless, Felicien soon showed certain signs of impatience, and he no longer remained for hours concealed behind a bush in the immobility of an absolute happiness. As soon as Angelique appeared at her window, he was restless, and tried to approach her as he glided from willow to willow. At length she was a little disturbed, fearing that someone might see him. One day there was almost a quarrel, for he came even to the wall of the house, so she was obliged to leave the balcony. It was a great shock to him that she should be offended, and he showed in the expression of his face so mute a prayer of submission that the next day she pardoned him, and opened her window at the usual hour. But although expectation was delightful, it was not sufficient for him, and he began again. Now he seemed to be everywhere at once: he filled the Clos-Marie with his restlessness; he came out from behind every tree; he appeared above every bunch of brambles. Like the wood-pigeons of the great elms in the Bishop's garden, he seemed to have his habitation between two branches in the environs. The Chevrotte was an excuse for his passing entire days there, on its willowy banks, bending over the stream, in which he seemed to be watching the floating of the clouds. One day she saw that he had climbed up on the ruins of the old mill, and was standing on the framework of a shed, looking happy to have thus approached her a little, in his regret at not being able to fly even so far as her shoulder. Another day she stifled a slight scream as she saw him far above her, leaning on an ornamented balustrade of the Cathedral, on the roof of the chapels of the choir, which formed a terrace. In what way could he have reached this gallery, the door of which was always fastened, and whose key no one had a right to touch but the beadle? Then again, a little later on, how was it that she should find him up in the air among the flying buttresses of the nave and the pinnacles of the piers? From these heights he could look into every part of her chamber, as the swallows who, flying from point to point among the spires, saw everything that was therein, without her having the idea of hiding herself from them. But a human eye was different, and from that day she shut herself up more, and an ever-increasing trouble came to her at the thought that her privacy was being intruded upon, and that she was no longer alone in the atmosphere of adoration that surrounded her. If she were really not impatient, why was it that her heart beat so strongly, like the bell of the clock-tower on great festivals? Three days passed without Angelique showing herself, so alarmed was she by the increasing boldness of Felicien. She vowed in her mind that she would never see him again, and wound herself up to such a degree of resentment, that she thought she hated him. But he had given her his feverishness. She could not keep still, and the slightest pretext was enough for an excuse to leave the chasuble upon which she was at work. So, having heard that _mere_ Gabet was ill in bed, in the most profound poverty, she went to see her every morning. Her room was on the Rue des Orfevres, only three doors away from the Huberts. She would take her tea, sugar, and soup, then, when necessary, go to buy her medicine at the druggist's on the Grand Rue. One day, as she returned with her hands full of the little phials, she started at seeing Felicien at the bedside of the old sick woman. He turned very red, and slipped away awkwardly, after leaving a charitable offering. The next day he came in as she was leaving, and she gave him her place, very much displeased. Did he really intend to prevent her from visiting the poor? In fact, she had been taken with one of her fits of charity, which made her give all she owned that she might overwhelm those who had nothing. At the idea of suffering, her whole soul melted into a pitiful fraternity. She went often to the _pere_ Mascart's, a blind paralytic on the Rue Basse, whom she was obliged to feed herself the broth she carried him; then to the Chouteaux, a man and his wife, each one over ninety years of age, who lived in a little hut on the Rue Magloire, which she had furnished for them with articles taken from the attic of her parents. Then there were others and others still whom she saw among the wretched populace of the quarter, and whom she helped to support from things that were about her, happy in being able to surprise them and to see them brighten up for a little while. But now, strange to say, wherever she went she encountered Felicien! Never before had she seen so much of him; she who had avoided going to her window for fear that he might be near. Her trouble increased, and at last she was very angry. But the worst of all in this matter was that Angelique soon despaired of her charity. This young man spoilt all her pleasure of giving. In other days he might perhaps have been equally generous, but it was not among the same people, not her own particular poor, of that she was sure. And he must have watched her and followed her very closely to know them all and to take them so regularly one after the other. Now, go when she might with a little basket of provisions to the Chouteaux, there was always money on the table. One day, when she went to _pere_ Mascart, who was constantly complaining that he had no tobacco, she found him very rich, with a shining new louis d'or on his table. Strangest of all, once when visiting _mere_ Gabet, the latter gave her a hundred franc note to change, and with it she was enabled to buy some high-priced medicines, of which the poor woman had long been in need, but which she never hoped to obtain, for where could she find money to pay for them? Angelique herself could not distribute much money, as she had none. It was heart-breaking to her to realise her powerlessness, when he could so easily empty his purse. She was, of course, happy that such a windfall had come to the poor, but she felt as if she were greatly diminished in her former self-estimation. She no longer had the same happiness in giving, but was disturbed and sad that she had so little to distribute, while he had so much. The young man, not understanding her feelings, thinking to conquer her esteem by an increase of gifts, redoubled his charity, and thus daily made hers seem less. Was not it exasperating to run against this fellow everywhere; to see him give an ox wherever she offered an egg? In addition to all this, she was obliged to hear his praises sung by all the needy whom he visited: "a young man so good, so kind, and so well brought up." She was a mere nothing now. They talked only of him, spreading out his gifts as if to shame hers. Notwithstanding her firm determination to forget him, she could not refrain from questioning them about him. What had he left? What had he said? He was very handsome, was he not? Tender and diffident as a woman! Perhaps he might even have spoken of her! Ah, yes indeed! That was true, for he always talked of her. Then she was very angry; yes, she certainly hated him, for at last she realised that he weighed on her breast too heavily. But matters could not continue in this way for ever, a change must take place; and one May evening, at a wondrously beautiful nightfall, it came. It was at the home of the Lemballeuse, the family who lived in the ruins of the mill. There were only women there; the old grandmother, seamed with wrinkles but still active, her daughter, and her grandchildren. Of the latter, Tiennette, the elder, was a large, wild-looking girl, twenty years of age, and her two little sisters, Rose and Jeanne, had already bold, fearless eyes, under their unkempt mops of red hair. They all begged during the day on the highway and along the moat, coming back at night, their feet worn out from fatigue in their old shoes fastened with bits of string. Indeed, that very evening Tiennette had been obliged to leave hers among the stones, and had returned wounded and with bleeding ankles. Seated before their door, in the midst of the high grass of the Clos-Marie, she drew out the thorns from her flesh, whilst her mother and the two children surrounded her and uttered lamentations. Just then Angelique arrived, hiding under her apron the bread which she had brought them, as she did once every week. She had entered the field by the little garden-gate, which she had left open behind her, as she intended to go back as quickly as possible. But she stopped on seeing all the family in tears. "What is the matter? Why are you in such distress?" "Ah, my good lady!" whined the mother Lemballeuse, "do not you see in what a terrible state this great foolish girl has put herself? To-morrow she will not be able to walk, so that will be a whole day lost. She must have some shoes!" Rose and Jeanne, with their eyes snapping from under their tangled hair, redoubled their sobs, as they cried out loudly-- "Yes, yes! She must have some shoes! She must have some shoes!" Tiennette, half lifting up her thin, dark face, looked round furtively. Then, fiercely, without a word, she made one of her feet bleed still more, maddened over a long splinter which she had just drawn out by the aid of a pin, and which must have pained her intensely. Angelique, quite touched by the scene, offered her the gift. "See! Here at least is some bread." "Oh, bread!" said the mother. "No doubt it is necessary to eat. But it is not with bread that she will be able to walk again, of that I am certain! And we were to go to the fair at Bligny, a fair where, every year, she makes at least two francs. Oh, good heavens! What will become of us if she cannot go there?" Pity and embarrassment rendered Angelique mute. She had exactly five sous in her pocket. It surely was not with five sous that one could buy a pair of shoes, even at an auction sale. As it had often done before, her want of money now paralysed her. And that which exasperated her still more and made her lose her self-control was that at this moment, as she looked behind her, she saw Felicien, standing a few feet from her in the darkening shadow. Without doubt he had heard all that had been said; perhaps even he had been there for a great while, for he always appeared to her in this way when least expected without her ever knowing whence he came or whither he was going. She thought to herself, "He will give the shoes." Indeed, he had already come forward. The first stars were appearing in the pale sky. A sweet, gentle quiet seemed to fall down from on high, soothing to sleep the Clos-Marie, whose willows were lost in the dusk. The Cathedral itself was only a great black bar in the West. "Yes, certainly, now he will offer to give the shoes." And at this probability she was really quite discouraged. Was he always, then, to give everything? Could she never, even once, conquer him? Never! Her heart beat so rapidly that it pained her. She wished that she might be very rich, to show him that she, too, could make others happy. But the Lemballeuse had seen the good gentleman. The mother had rushed forward; the two little sisters moaned as they held out their hands for alms, whilst the elder one, letting go of her wounded ankles, looked at the new-comer inquiringly with her wild eyes. "Listen, my noisy children," said Felicien. Then, addressing the mother, he continued, "You may go to the Grand Rue, at the corner of the Rue Basse--" Angelique had understood immediately, for the shoemaker had his shop there. She interrupted him quickly, and was so agitated that she stammered her words at random. "But that is a useless thing to do! What would be the good of it? It is much more simple--"
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