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The Wings of Icarus - Being the Life of one Emilia Fletcher by Laurence Alma-Tadema
page 76 of 139 (54%)


February 13th.

Dearest, I have had a strange, wonderful dream. To-morrow morning,
when I awake, I shall find it was not true. Shall I tell it you?

I handle it as some frail treasure that I fear to touch. I keep
wondering on which side to turn it, so that, when I hold it up, you
may see it shine. The earth is very beautiful to-night; from my
window I see the moon and a mighty host of glittering worlds,--even
Emilia is beautiful to-night! I went to the glass just now, to look
upon the face of happiness, and, instead of myself I saw--Oh, but
why say all this? Why not tell you? I cannot; words are weak, but I
think you can feel it, Constance. Oh, sweetest, I think you can, I
think you know. I am half mad to-night; that is why I write so
queerly. But now I will set it down. I wonder what it looks like,
written down. I shall write it very neatly; it will look pretty.
Gabriel loves me. Do you see? Gabriel loves me. I think I shall
write it again,--Gabriel loves me. I never wrote anything that
pleased me so well, and my heart sings it within me unceasingly. Oh,
of course it is not true; it is just a dream. I think this is how
the dream went.

I sat in the study at the Thatched Cottage; we were all four there;
I had not spoken for a while; the thing I had to say weighed me
down. I said it suddenly, "I am going back to Florence; I shall
leave Graysmill on Monday."

Richard Norton cried, "What?" and Jane cried, "Emilia!" It was only
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