You treat
me like a slave, and bid me bow to my master! Is this the guerdon of a
free maiden--is this the price of a life's passion? Ah me! when was it
otherwise? when did love meet with aught but disappointment? Could I
hope (fond fool!) to be the exception to the lot of my race; and lay
my fevered brow on a heart that comprehended my own? Foolish girl
that I was! One by one, all the flowers of my young life have faded
away; and this, the last, the sweetest, the dearest, the fondly, the
madly loved, the wildly cherished--where is it? But no more of this.
Heed not my bleeding heart.--Bless you, bless you always, Arthur!
"I will write more when I am more collected. My racking brain renders
thought almost impossible. I long to see Laura! She will come to us
directly we return from the country, will she not? And you, cold
one!" B.
The words of this letter were perfectly clear, and written in
Blanche's neatest hand, upon her scented paper; and yet the meaning of
the composition not a little puzzled Pen.
Pages:
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789