This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1885 edition. Excerpt: ..."Am I disengaged?--then yes," returns she, thoughtlessly. "You are engaged to me for the next," interferes Ponsonby at this moment, in a dull but hurried tone which he strives hard to relieve from a suspicion of offence. "Yes? Is it? But of course. I quite forgot. The next, then, Sir George, for which ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1885 edition. Excerpt: ..."Am I disengaged?--then yes," returns she, thoughtlessly. "You are engaged to me for the next," interferes Ponsonby at this moment, in a dull but hurried tone which he strives hard to relieve from a suspicion of offence. "Yes? Is it? But of course. I quite forgot. The next, then, Sir George, for which I am free, which will be the fourteenth, --if we stay so long. You see," bending slightly toward him with a childish, restless movement, "I never put down Mr. Ponsonby's name." "I quite understand," says Sir George with a gesture of the hand and a smile. And then the interview is over, and Miss Disney is in her lover-'s arms, waltzing languidly to the strains of the band sent down to the castle from town. He cuts the dance somewhat short, and draws her, not unwillingly, to the open window of a room that, leading to the balcony, is suggestive of an easy descent by stone steps to the pleat-aunce beneath. Into the night and into the slumberous garden he leads her, where mignonette and late sweet roses give forth unconscious perfume to the drowsy air. A pale young moon is hanging in the heavens above, her beams falling tenderly upon the sleeping earth. Ever and anon a fieecy cloud glides over her, threatening to blot her from her place; but again, ere doubt has time for growth, it hurries on, and, --Melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own, --Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene. "Do you feel the softness of the air?" says the girl, turning to him with a touch of impulsive gladness in her tone. "I like a garden at midnight, and I like the country better than the town....
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