Do we not tell it marvellous tales of the golden future? Hope herlf, does she not spread her radiant wings above its head? Does it not shed, with infant fiess, its tears of sorrow and its tears of joy? Does it not fret for trifles, bsp;for the pretty pebbles with whibsp;to build its shifting palaces, for the flowers fotten as soon as plucked? Is it not eager to grasp the ing time, to spring forward into life? Love is our d transformation. Childhood and love were one and the same thing to Eugenie and to Charles; it was a first passion, with all its child-like play,-the more caressing to their hearts bebsp;they now were ed in sadness. Struggling at birth against the gloom of m, their love was only the more in harmony with the provincial plainness of that gray and ruined hou.
As they exged a few words beside the well in the silent court, or lingered in the garden for the sunt hour, sitting on a mossy at saying to eabsp;other the infinite nothings of love, or mud in the silent calm whibsp;reigned between the hou and the ramparts like that beh the arches of a churbsp;Charles prehended the sanctity of love; for his great lady, his dear Ae, had taught him only its stormy troubles. At this moment he left the worldly passion, coquettish, vain, and showy as it was, and turned to the true, pure love. He loved even the hou, who s no longer emed to him ridiculous. He got up early in the ms that he might talk with Eugenie for a moment before her father came to dole out the provisions; when the steps of the old man sounded on the stairbsp;he escaped into the garden. The small criminality of this m tete-a-tete whibsp;Nanon pretended not to e, gave to their i love the lively charm of a forbidden joy.
Do we not tell it marvellous tales of the golden future? Hope herlf, does she not spread her radiant wings above its head? Does it not shed, with infant fiess, its tears of sorrow and its tears of joy? Does it not fret for trifles, bsp;for the pretty pebbles with whibsp;to build its shifting palaces, for the flowers fotten as soon as plucked? Is it not eager to grasp the ing time, to spring forward into life? Love is our d transformation. Childhood and love were one and the same thing to Eugenie and to Charles; it was a first passion, with all its child-like play,-the more caressing to their hearts bebsp;they now were ed in sadness. Struggling at birth against the gloom of m, their love was only the more in harmony with the provincial plainness of that gray and ruined hou.
As they exged a few words beside the well in the silent court, or lingered in the garden for the sunt hour, sitting on a mossy at saying to eabsp;other the infinite nothings of love, or mud in the silent calm whibsp;reigned between the hou and the ramparts like that beh the arches of a churbsp;Charles prehended the sanctity of love; for his great lady, his dear Ae, had taught him only its stormy troubles. At this moment he left the worldly passion, coquettish, vain, and showy as it was, and turned to the true, pure love. He loved even the hou, who s no longer emed to him ridiculous. He got up early in the ms that he might talk with Eugenie for a moment before her father came to dole out the provisions; when the steps of the old man sounded on the stairbsp;he escaped into the garden. The small criminality of this m tete-a-tete whibsp;Nanon pretended not to e, gave to their i love the lively charm of a forbidden joy.