I read it because--well just because
they want me to read about nothing but sickly old saints and woe-
begone penitents. I like something lively. What do I care for all
that uninteresting religious stuff?"
"Montaigne IS decidedly lively in spots," Beverley remarked. "I
shouldn't think a girl--I shouldn't think you'd particularly enjoy
his humors."
"I don't care for the book at all," she said, flushing quickly,
"only I seem to learn about the world from it. Sometimes it seems
as if it lifted me up high above all this wild, lonely and
tiresome country, so that I can see far off where things are
different and beautiful. It is the same with the novels; and they
don't permit me to read them either; but all the same I do."
When Beverley, taking his leave, passed through the gate at
Roussillon place, he met Rene de Ronville going in. It was a
notable coincidence that each young man felt something troublesome
rise in his throat as he looked into the other's eyes.
A week of dreamy autumn weather came on, during which Beverley
managed to be with Alice a great deal, mostly sitting on the
Roussillon gallery, where the fading vine leaves made fairy
whispering, and where the tempered breeze blew deliciously cool
from over the distant multi-colored woods. The men of Vincennes
were gathering their Indian corn early to dry it on the cob for
grating into winter meal.
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