"The sun, Adele. The sun that rose in America in 1895. Out of the foam
of the sea. I can't tell you the date, but it must have been a beautiful
day."
There was a pause. Then--
"How interesting!" said Adele. "So it withered them up, did it?"
I nodded.
"You see, Adele, they had no root."
"None of them?"
"None."
Adele looked straight ahead of her into the box-hedge, which rose, stiff
and punctilious, ten paces away, the counterpart of that beneath which
we were sitting. For once in a way, her merry smile was missing. In its
stead Gravity sat in her eyes, hung on the warm red lips. I had known
her solemn before, but not like this. The proud face looked very
resolute. There was a strength about the lift of the delicate chin, a
steadfast fearlessness about the poise of the well-shaped
head--unworldly wonders, which I had never seen. Over the glorious
temples the soft dark hair swept rich and lustrous. The exquisite column
of her neck rose from her flowered silk gown with matchless elegance.
Her precious hands, all rosy, lay in her lap. Crossed legs gave me
twelve inches of slim silk stocking and a satin slipper, dainty
habiliments, not half so dainty as their slender charge....
The stable clock struck the half-hour.
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