" "But that style isn't Oriental. For I still love her mother. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. —'I see how it'll be,' observed Alsatia, 'everybody'll pay his debts, and only think of such a state of things as that. Burn your palette and your easel. "The Dawn Pearl," he said.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 22-09-2024 09:07:36
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