She who had been Florence Flannery noted with a careless eye the stains
of wet on the dusty stairs, and with a glance ill used to observance of
domesticities looked up for damp or dripping ceilings. The dim-walled
staircase revealed nothing but more dust, yet this would serve as a peg
for ill-humor to hang on, so Florence pouted. "An ill, muddy place,"
said she, who loved gilding and gimcracks and mirrors reflecting velvet
chairs, and flounced away to the upper chamber, lifting frilled skirts
contemptuously high. Her husband followed; they had been married a week
and there had never been any happiness in their wilful passion. Daniel
Shute did not now look for any; in the disgust of this draggled
homecoming he wondered what had induced him to marry the woman and how
soon he would come to hate her.
As she stood in the big bedroom he watched her with dislike; her tawdry
charms of vulgar prettiness had once been delightful to his dazed senses
and muddled wits, but here, in his old home, washed by the fine Devon
air, his sight was clearer and she appeared coarse as a poppy at the far
end of August.
"Of course you hate it," he said cynically, lounging with his big
shoulders against one of the bedposts, his big hands in the pockets of
his tight nankeen trousers, and his fair hair, tousled from the journey,
hanging over his mottled face.
"It is not the place you boasted to have," replied Florence, but idly,
for she stood by the window and looked at the tiny leaded panes; the
autumn sun gleaming sideways on this glass, picked out a name scratched
there:
FLORENCE FLANNERY. BORNE 1500.
"Look here," cried the woman, excited, "this should be my ancestress!"
She slipped off a huge diamond ring she wore and scratched underneath
the writing the present year, "1800." Daniel Shute came and looked over
her shoulder.
"That reads strange--'Born 1500'--as if you would say died 1800," he
remarked. "Well, I don't suppose she had anything to do with you, my
charmer, yet she brought you luck, for it was remembering this name here
made me notice you when I heard what you were called."
He spoke uncivilly, and she responded in the same tone. "Undervalue what
is your own, Mr. Shute. There was enough for me to choose from, I can
swear!"
"Enough likely gallants," he grinned, "not so many likely husbands, eh?"
He slouched away, for, fallen as he was, it stung him that he had
married a corybante of the opera, an unplaced, homeless, nameless
creature for all he knew, for he could never quite believe that
"Florence Flannery" was her real name.
Yet that name had always attracted; it was so queer that he should meet
a real woman called Florence Flannery when one of the earliest of his
recollections was tracing that name over with a curious finger in the
old diamond pane.
1113646008
of wet on the dusty stairs, and with a glance ill used to observance of
domesticities looked up for damp or dripping ceilings. The dim-walled
staircase revealed nothing but more dust, yet this would serve as a peg
for ill-humor to hang on, so Florence pouted. "An ill, muddy place,"
said she, who loved gilding and gimcracks and mirrors reflecting velvet
chairs, and flounced away to the upper chamber, lifting frilled skirts
contemptuously high. Her husband followed; they had been married a week
and there had never been any happiness in their wilful passion. Daniel
Shute did not now look for any; in the disgust of this draggled
homecoming he wondered what had induced him to marry the woman and how
soon he would come to hate her.
As she stood in the big bedroom he watched her with dislike; her tawdry
charms of vulgar prettiness had once been delightful to his dazed senses
and muddled wits, but here, in his old home, washed by the fine Devon
air, his sight was clearer and she appeared coarse as a poppy at the far
end of August.
"Of course you hate it," he said cynically, lounging with his big
shoulders against one of the bedposts, his big hands in the pockets of
his tight nankeen trousers, and his fair hair, tousled from the journey,
hanging over his mottled face.
"It is not the place you boasted to have," replied Florence, but idly,
for she stood by the window and looked at the tiny leaded panes; the
autumn sun gleaming sideways on this glass, picked out a name scratched
there:
FLORENCE FLANNERY. BORNE 1500.
"Look here," cried the woman, excited, "this should be my ancestress!"
She slipped off a huge diamond ring she wore and scratched underneath
the writing the present year, "1800." Daniel Shute came and looked over
her shoulder.
"That reads strange--'Born 1500'--as if you would say died 1800," he
remarked. "Well, I don't suppose she had anything to do with you, my
charmer, yet she brought you luck, for it was remembering this name here
made me notice you when I heard what you were called."
He spoke uncivilly, and she responded in the same tone. "Undervalue what
is your own, Mr. Shute. There was enough for me to choose from, I can
swear!"
"Enough likely gallants," he grinned, "not so many likely husbands, eh?"
He slouched away, for, fallen as he was, it stung him that he had
married a corybante of the opera, an unplaced, homeless, nameless
creature for all he knew, for he could never quite believe that
"Florence Flannery" was her real name.
Yet that name had always attracted; it was so queer that he should meet
a real woman called Florence Flannery when one of the earliest of his
recollections was tracing that name over with a curious finger in the
old diamond pane.
The Last Bouquet: Some Twilight Tales
She who had been Florence Flannery noted with a careless eye the stains
of wet on the dusty stairs, and with a glance ill used to observance of
domesticities looked up for damp or dripping ceilings. The dim-walled
staircase revealed nothing but more dust, yet this would serve as a peg
for ill-humor to hang on, so Florence pouted. "An ill, muddy place,"
said she, who loved gilding and gimcracks and mirrors reflecting velvet
chairs, and flounced away to the upper chamber, lifting frilled skirts
contemptuously high. Her husband followed; they had been married a week
and there had never been any happiness in their wilful passion. Daniel
Shute did not now look for any; in the disgust of this draggled
homecoming he wondered what had induced him to marry the woman and how
soon he would come to hate her.
As she stood in the big bedroom he watched her with dislike; her tawdry
charms of vulgar prettiness had once been delightful to his dazed senses
and muddled wits, but here, in his old home, washed by the fine Devon
air, his sight was clearer and she appeared coarse as a poppy at the far
end of August.
"Of course you hate it," he said cynically, lounging with his big
shoulders against one of the bedposts, his big hands in the pockets of
his tight nankeen trousers, and his fair hair, tousled from the journey,
hanging over his mottled face.
"It is not the place you boasted to have," replied Florence, but idly,
for she stood by the window and looked at the tiny leaded panes; the
autumn sun gleaming sideways on this glass, picked out a name scratched
there:
FLORENCE FLANNERY. BORNE 1500.
"Look here," cried the woman, excited, "this should be my ancestress!"
She slipped off a huge diamond ring she wore and scratched underneath
the writing the present year, "1800." Daniel Shute came and looked over
her shoulder.
"That reads strange--'Born 1500'--as if you would say died 1800," he
remarked. "Well, I don't suppose she had anything to do with you, my
charmer, yet she brought you luck, for it was remembering this name here
made me notice you when I heard what you were called."
He spoke uncivilly, and she responded in the same tone. "Undervalue what
is your own, Mr. Shute. There was enough for me to choose from, I can
swear!"
"Enough likely gallants," he grinned, "not so many likely husbands, eh?"
He slouched away, for, fallen as he was, it stung him that he had
married a corybante of the opera, an unplaced, homeless, nameless
creature for all he knew, for he could never quite believe that
"Florence Flannery" was her real name.
Yet that name had always attracted; it was so queer that he should meet
a real woman called Florence Flannery when one of the earliest of his
recollections was tracing that name over with a curious finger in the
old diamond pane.
of wet on the dusty stairs, and with a glance ill used to observance of
domesticities looked up for damp or dripping ceilings. The dim-walled
staircase revealed nothing but more dust, yet this would serve as a peg
for ill-humor to hang on, so Florence pouted. "An ill, muddy place,"
said she, who loved gilding and gimcracks and mirrors reflecting velvet
chairs, and flounced away to the upper chamber, lifting frilled skirts
contemptuously high. Her husband followed; they had been married a week
and there had never been any happiness in their wilful passion. Daniel
Shute did not now look for any; in the disgust of this draggled
homecoming he wondered what had induced him to marry the woman and how
soon he would come to hate her.
As she stood in the big bedroom he watched her with dislike; her tawdry
charms of vulgar prettiness had once been delightful to his dazed senses
and muddled wits, but here, in his old home, washed by the fine Devon
air, his sight was clearer and she appeared coarse as a poppy at the far
end of August.
"Of course you hate it," he said cynically, lounging with his big
shoulders against one of the bedposts, his big hands in the pockets of
his tight nankeen trousers, and his fair hair, tousled from the journey,
hanging over his mottled face.
"It is not the place you boasted to have," replied Florence, but idly,
for she stood by the window and looked at the tiny leaded panes; the
autumn sun gleaming sideways on this glass, picked out a name scratched
there:
FLORENCE FLANNERY. BORNE 1500.
"Look here," cried the woman, excited, "this should be my ancestress!"
She slipped off a huge diamond ring she wore and scratched underneath
the writing the present year, "1800." Daniel Shute came and looked over
her shoulder.
"That reads strange--'Born 1500'--as if you would say died 1800," he
remarked. "Well, I don't suppose she had anything to do with you, my
charmer, yet she brought you luck, for it was remembering this name here
made me notice you when I heard what you were called."
He spoke uncivilly, and she responded in the same tone. "Undervalue what
is your own, Mr. Shute. There was enough for me to choose from, I can
swear!"
"Enough likely gallants," he grinned, "not so many likely husbands, eh?"
He slouched away, for, fallen as he was, it stung him that he had
married a corybante of the opera, an unplaced, homeless, nameless
creature for all he knew, for he could never quite believe that
"Florence Flannery" was her real name.
Yet that name had always attracted; it was so queer that he should meet
a real woman called Florence Flannery when one of the earliest of his
recollections was tracing that name over with a curious finger in the
old diamond pane.
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The Last Bouquet: Some Twilight Tales
The Last Bouquet: Some Twilight Tales
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013762732 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/15/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 120 KB |
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