To me she was always the same. Sometimes, when I saw her
coming to meet me along those paths where the rose leaves lay dead, I
felt inclined to go away and leave her; but natural politeness came to
my aid. Then when she had talked to me for a few minutes, a strange,
subtle charm would steal over me.
I knew her well-chosen compliments were all flattery. I knew she was
pursuing me for some object of her own. Yet that charm no words can
describe was stronger than my reason. Away from her I disliked her; my
judgment was all against her; in her presence no man could help being
fascinated.
I thank Heaven that I had the shield of a pure and holy love; I was but
a weak man, and nothing else saved me. If there came a wet day, or one
that was not pleasant for walking, she had a thousand ways of making
time fly. She played billiards as well as any man; she read aloud more
beautifully and perfectly than I have ever heard any one else. She made
every room she entered cheerful; she had a fund of anecdote that never
seemed to be exhausted.
But the time she liked best for weaving her spells was after sunset,
before the lamps were lighted.
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