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She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. ‘Come, cry a truce.
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This video was uploaded to mine-tec.com on 30-05-2024 07:29:37
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