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A Foregone Conclusion by William Dean Howells
page 32 of 230 (13%)
"Oh yes, there is," pleaded Mrs. Vervain, laying her hand on his arm.
"I want you to come in and dine with us. We dine early."

"Thank you, I can't. Affairs of the nation, you know. Rebel privateer
on the canal of the Brenta."

"Really?" Mrs. Vervain leaned towards Ferris for sharper scrutiny of
his face. Her glasses sprang from her nose, and precipitated themselves
into his bosom.

"Allow me," he said, with burlesque politeness, withdrawing them from
the recesses of his waistcoat and gravely presenting them. Miss Vervain
burst into a helpless laugh; then she turned toward her mother with a
kind of indignant tenderness, and gently arranged her shawl so that it
should not drop off when she rose to leave the gondola. She did not
look again at Ferris, who resisted Mrs. Vervain's entreaties to remain,
and took leave as soon as the gondola landed.

The ladies went to their room, where Florida lifted from the table a
vase of divers-colored hyacinths, and stepping out upon the balcony
flung the flowers into the canal. As she put down the empty vase, the
lingering perfume of the banished flowers haunted the air of the room.

"Why, Florida," said her mother, "those were the flowers that Mr.
Ferris gave you. Did you fancy they had begun to decay? The smell of
hyacinths when they're a little old is dreadful. But I can't imagine a
gentleman's giving you flowers that were at all old."

"Oh, mother, don't speak to me!" cried Miss Vervain, passionately,
clasping her hands to her face.
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