Pauline's eyes had never
become satiated with the sight of beautiful things.
Perhaps, as she had told Vladimir, it was her love for him that had
given her this gift of clear-seeing. Without love she might have
allowed herself to be blindfolded as many other women are, by ambition,
or money, or intellect.
CHAPTER XIV
"La vie est vaine,
Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bon jour."
In the process of Arithelli's convalescence, comedy fought for place with
tragedy.
For the first time in her life she felt irritable, and inclined to
grumble, and her racked nerves made the lonely hours appear doubly long
and lonely.
Day after day, each one seemingly more unending than the last, the sun
poured into her room, and the dust and litter accumulated in all four
corners, and she lay and gazed at the hideous meandering pattern of the
stained wall-paper, and the cracks and blistering paint on the door. The
nights were less terrible, for the darkness veiled all sordid details,
and there was a star-lit patch of sky visible through the open window.
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