To Edith
there was about that face a nameless but mighty fascination, a
something which made her warm blood chill and tingle in her veins,
while there crept over her a second time dim visions of something
far back in the past--of purple fruit on vine-clad hills--of music
soft and low--of days and nights on some tossing, moving object--
and then of a huge white building, embowered in tall green trees,
whose milk-white blossoms she gathered in her hand; while distinct
from all the rest was this face, on which she gazed so earnestly.
It is true that all these thoughts were not clear to her mind; it
was rather a confused mixture of ideas, one of which faded ere
another came, so that there seemed no real connection between
them; and had she embodied them in words, they would have been
recognized as the idle fancies of a strange, old-fashioned child.
But the picture--there WAS something in it which held Edith
motionless, while her tongue seemed struggling to articulate a
NAME, but failed in the attempt; and when, at last, her lips did
move, they uttered the word MARIE, as if she too, were associated
with that sweet young face.
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