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The ninth vibration and other stories by L. Adams (Lily Moresby Adams) Beck
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strangle-hold of the jungle and hemmed in with rocks and forest.
A few simple flowers had been planted here and there, but its
chief beauty was a mountain stream, brown and clear as the eyes
of a dog, that fell from a crag above into a rocky basin,
maidenhair ferns growing in such masses about it that it was
henceforward scarcely more than a woodland voice. Beside it two
great deodars spread their canopies, and there a woman sat in a
low chair, a girl beside her reading aloud. She had thrown her
hat off and the sunshine turned her massed dark hair to bronze.
That was all I could see. I went out and joined them, taking the
note of introduction which Olesen had given me.

I pass over the unessentials of my story; their friendly
greetings and sympathy for my adventure. It set us at ease at
once and I knew my stay would be the happier for their presence
though it is not every woman one would choose as a companion in
the great mountain country. But what is germane to my purpose
must be told, and of this a part is the per- sonality of Brynhild
Ingmar. That she was beautiful I never doubted, though I have
heard it disputed and smiled inwardly as the disputants urged lip
and cheek and shades of rose and lily, weighing and appraising.
Let me describe her as I saw her or, rather, as I can, adding
that even without all this she must still have been beautiful
because of the deep significance to those who had eyes to see or
feel some mysterious element which mingled itself with her
presence comparable only to the delight which the power and
spiritual essence of Nature inspires in all but the dullest
minds. I know I cannot hope to convey this in words. It means
little if I say I thought of all quiet lovely solitary things
when I looked into her calm eyes, - that when she moved it was
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