The Vicar's Daughter by George MacDonald
page 34 of 468 (07%)
page 34 of 468 (07%)
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side hung the wounded knight whom his friends were carrying home to die.
"O my Percivale!" I cried, and could say no more. "Do you like it?" he asked quietly, but with shining eyes. "Like it?" I repeated. "Shall I like Paradise when I get there? But what a lot of money it must have cost you!" "Not much," he answered; "not more than thirty pounds or so. Every spot of paint there is from my own brush." "O Percivale!" I must make a conversation of it to tell it at all; but what I really did say I know no more than the man in the moon. "The carpet was the only expensive thing. That must be as thick as I could get it; for the floor is of stone, and must not come near your pretty feet. Guess what the place was before." "I should say, the flower of a prickly-pear cactus, full of sunlight from behind, which a fairy took the fancy to swell into a room." "It was a shed, in which the sculptor who occupied the place before me used to keep his wet clay and blocks of marble." "Seeing is hardly believing," I said. "Is it to be my room? I know you mean it for my room, where I can ask you to come when I please, and where I can hide when any one comes you don't want me to see." |
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