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Augusta, Clara, 1839-1905

"The Fatal Glove"

"
She kissed an ivory cross lying on her bosom, and proceeded with evident
difficulty.
"Well, I fled with Paul Linmere. For a time I was very happy. He was kind
to me, and I loved him so! We lived in a little vine-wreathed cottage, on
the banks of the Seine, and I had my tiny flower-garden, my books, my
birds, my faithful dog Leo--and Paul! Every pleasant night he used to
take me out on the river in the little boat which bore my name on its
side. O, those nights of perfect peace! The stars shone so softly, and
the moon beamed with a mellow light peculiar to Southern moons. Those
seasons of delight are a sweet dream in my memory. They seemed stolen
from paradise--they were so perfect. I lived in a sort of blissful waking
trance, that left me nothing to desire, nothing to ask for. Fool that I
was! I thought it was to last always. A little more cordial, Louis; it
will keep the spark of life alive, perhaps, until I have finished."
"Do not exert yourself, Arabel," he said, pityingly; "I do not wish you
to."
"I shall die easier. Let me go on. After a while, Paul wearied of me.
Perhaps I was too lavish of my caresses and words of love; it might tire
him to be loved so intensely. But such was my nature. He grew cold and
distant; at times positively ill-natured.


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