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Excerpt: "Maisie Llewelyn had never been asked to Wolverden before; therefore, she was not a little elated at Mrs. West's invitation. "Wolverden Tower was fasted thrice," the old woman continued, in a sing-song quaver. "It was fasted thrice with souls of maids against every assault of man or.
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Read on. Grant Allen — was a Canadian science writer and novelist, and a proponent of the theory of evolution. Allen also became a pioneer in science fiction, with the novel "The British Barbarians" which was published about the same time as H.
Wells's "The Time Machine". Maisie Llewelyn had never been asked to Wolverden before; therefore, she was not a little elated at Mrs. West's invitation. For Wolverden Hall, one of the loveliest Elizabethan manor-houses in the Weald of Kent, had been bought and fitted up in appropriate style the phrase is the upholsterer's by Colonel West, the famous millionaire from South Australia.
The Colonel had lavished upon it untold wealth, fleeced from the backs of ten thousand sheep and an equal number of his fellow-countrymen; and Wolverden was now, if not the most beautiful, at least the most opulent country-house within easy reach of London.
West was waiting at the station to meet Maisie. The house was full of Christmas guests already, it is true; but Mrs. West was a model of stately, old-fashioned courtesy: she would not have omitted meeting one among the number on any less excuse than a royal command to appear at Windsor. She kissed Maisie on both cheeks--she had always been fond of Maisie--and, leaving two haughty young aristocrats in powdered hair and blue-and-gold livery to hunt up her luggage by the light of nature, sailed forth with her through the door to the obsequious carriage.
The drive up the avenue to Wolverden Hall Maisie found quite delicious. Even in their leafless winter condition the great limes looked so noble; and the ivy-covered hall at the end, with its mullioned windows, its Inigo Jones porch, and its creeper-clad gables, was as picturesque a building as the ideals one sees in Mr. Abbey's sketches. Iphigenia was a daughter of Agamemnon's, don't you know, and he had offended Artemis or somebody--some other Goddess; and he vowed to offer up to her the most beautiful thing that should be born that year, by way of reparation--just like Jephthah.
Well, Iphigenia was considered the most beautiful product of the particular twelvemonth? I seem to be incommoding you.
He moved away with a furtive air. At the end of the tableau one or two of the characters who were not needed in succeeding pieces came down from the stage and joined the body of spectators, as they often do, in their character-dresses--a good opportunity, in point of fact, for retaining through the evening the advantages conferred by theatrical costume, rouge, and pearl-powder.
Among them the two girls Maisie had admired so much glided quietly toward her and took the two vacant seats on either side, one of which had just been quitted by the awkward undergraduate. They were not only beautiful in face and figure, on a closer view, but Maisie found them from the first extremely sympathetic.
They burst into talk with her, frankly and at once, with charming ease and grace of manner. They were ladies in the grain, in instinct and breeding.
The taller of the two, whom the other addressed as Yolande, seemed particularly pleasing. The very name charmed Maisie. She was friends with them at once. They both possessed a certain nameless attraction that constitutes in itself the best possible introduction. Maisie hesitated to ask them whence they came, but it was clear from their talk they knew Wolverden intimately. After a minute the piano struck up once more.
A famous Scotch vocalist, in a diamond necklet and a dress to match, took her place on the stage, just in front of the footlights.
As chance would have it, she began singing the song Maisie most of all hated. Maisie listened to the song with grave discomfort. She had never liked it, and to-night it appalled her. She did not know that just at that moment Mrs. West was whispering in a perfect fever of apology to a lady by her side, "Oh dear! It was horribly thoughtless! Why, now I remember, Miss Llewelyn's name, you know, is Maisie!
business-unlimited.com/modules/elder-scrolls/bofex-mac-os.php And there she is listening to it with a face like a sheet! I shall never forgive myself! The tall, dark girl by Maisie's side, whom the other called Yolande, leaned across to her sympathetically. And with such eyes as yours, too!
Your eyes are like mine! For death is but a gate--the gate of life in its fullest beauty. It is written over the door, 'Mors janua vit. And beyond it is peace--eternal peace--the calm of rest--the joy of the spirit. And if time passes quickly in time, how much more, then, in eternity! Let me see, is this 'The Death of Ophelia'? No, that's number four; this is number three, 'The Martyrdom of St. West said, positively oozing apology, when she met Maisie in the supper-room, "I'm afraid you've been left in a corner by yourself almost all the evening!
What's their name, I wonder? West asked, with a little surprise in her tone, for her impression was rather that Maisie had been sitting between two empty chairs for the greater part of the evening, muttering at times to herself in the most uncanny way, but not talking to anybody. Maisie glanced round the room in search of her new friends, and for some time could not see them. At last, she observed them in a remote alcove, drinking red wine by themselves out of Venetian-glass beakers. Can you tell me who they are? I've quite taken a fancy to them.
West gazed at them for a second--or rather, at the recess towards which Maisie pointed--and then turned to Maisie with much the same oddly embarrassed look and manner as the undergraduate's. At any rate?