wimple of white crêpe framing the lovely oval of her face, she looked like a young Mother Superior. "Precious person!" the lady next Uncle Johnnie groaned, and her companion whispered reverently, "War widow?" while other ladies whispered, "Shsh!" for Christabel had begun to read.
You win, Christabel, Uncle Johnnie thought. No matter what the circumstances, I back you to win!
"I will not speak of these things, let me keep
Silence to cloak my wounds—the tears that!
Have shed for you, the passionate and deep
Blue of the gentian under the sad sky"
Silence to cloak my wounds—the tears that!
Have shed for you, the passionate and deep
Blue of the gentian under the sad sky"
Christabel was reading, and much more to the same effect—a thorough inventory, ending:
"Of these, while still I live, I will not speak."
Quite right, too, thought Uncle Johnnie. Don't you do it. What aren't you going to speak about next?
She swayed slightly, a flower in the wind, and clung to the back of a chair, as if she were
