'"
"I didn't guess then what a beautiful and wonderful thing passion could
be--I'd only seen the other side of it."
Sylvia winced, but she only said, very gently: "Then can you, with that
knowledge, wish Edith to keep on seeing it all her life? It's--it's
pretty dreadful, I think--remember I've seen it too."
"Good God, Sylvia, do stop talking as if the cases were synonymous! _You
were married_! It's revolting to me to hear you keep saying that you
'understand.' There's no more likeness between you and Edith than there
is between a lily growing in a queen's garden and a sweet-brier rose
springing up on a dusty highroad."
"I know how you feel, dear; but remember, the sweet-brier rose isn't a
_weed_! They're both flowers--and fragrant--and--and fragile, aren't
they?" Then, very softly: "Besides, the lily growing in the queen's
garden, even though the wicked king may own it for a time, is usually
picked in the end--by the fairy prince--to adorn his palace; while the
little sweet-brier rose any tramp may pluck and stick in his hat--and
fling away when it is faded.
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