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“I am waiting for him—the grand conqueror,”
she used to say in speaking of love. “He has stormed
no walls and surmounted no graves as yet. He has
come tamely to me, having neither wildness in his
eyes nor daring in his heart. I am waiting for the
mighty one who will carry me out of myself. I want
to feel the love so strong within me that I tremble
before it. I only know the kind of love at which my
intellect smiles.”
She had the low voice and the refinement of a
woman of high rank. They all bowed down to her
in her country home, and felt their insignificance
and ignorance of the ways of the fine world, but
if she spoke, if she only smiled—all was well. She
was a queen, and created a court and courtly
manners wherever she went.
Her presence gave inspiration to the speeches and
life to the wine. She gave speed to the violin bows,
and the dancing went gayer than ever over the boards
that she touched with her slender feet. She shone
in the tableaux and in the acting.
Oh, no, it was not her fault—it was never her
fault.
It was the balcony, the moonlight, the lace veil,
and the cavalier dress that were to blame. The poor
young people were innocent.
All that now follows, which led to so much
unhappiness, was done with the best intention. Squire
Julius, who could manage anything, had arranged
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