"
"She is thirty, you say, and has been here for five years; that would
make her a woman of twenty-five before she left France. A French woman
of twenty-five has lived her life."
"That is just what I mean," she replied. "Rely upon it, for all her
girlish face and girlish ways, Coralie d'Aubergne has lived hers."
"Clare," I asked, half shyly, "how do you like Miss Thesiger?"
A look bright as a sunbeam came over my sister's face.
"Ah! hers is a beautiful nature--sweet, frank, candid, transparent--no
two lives there, Edgar. Her face is as pure as a lily, and her soul is
the same. No need to turn from me, dear; I read your secret when she
came in. If you give me such a sister as that I shall be grateful to
you."
"Then you think there might be some chance for me if I asked her to
become my wife?"
"Assuredly. Why not?"
She said no more, for at that moment Coralie returned; she had been in
the garden gathering some flowers for Clare. The brightest bloom was on
her face; the brightest light was in her eye. Looking at her, it was
impossible to believe that she was anything but a light-hearted happy
girl.
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