Moths by Ouida — page 234: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

230 ) MOTHS. a hothouse with your palms, and the poor are all round you in the ice; everything is like that.” _ ‘‘And yet you are Russian,” said Correze, a little cruelly and bitterly; for he had never forgiven her quick descent into her mother’s toils, her, quick acceptance of temptation. ‘* You are certainly Russian. You are no longer Vere even: you are Prin- cess Vera.” ‘‘T am always Vere,” she said, ina.ow tone. ‘‘ They must call me what they will, but it alters nothing.” ** And Vera is a good name, too,” said Correze, bending his eye almost sternly on hers. ‘‘It means Truth.” ‘< Yes; it means that.” He glided into the grass at the foot of the trees, and sat there, leaning ,on his elbow, and looking toward her: it was the atti- tude in which she had seen him first upon the beach at Trouville, He was always graceful in all he did; the soft afternoon light was upon hisface; he had thrown his broad felt hat upon the aie a stray sunbeam wandered in the bright brown of his air. Vere glanced at him, and was about to speak, then hesitated—~ paused—at last unclosed her lips so long shut in silence. ** You remember that you bade me keep myself unspotted from the world?” she said, suddenly. ‘*I want to tell you that I strive always to do so; yes, [do. I was never ruled by ambition and vanity—as you think. J cannot tell you more; but, if you un¢ derstand me at all, you will understand that that is true.” ‘¢ I knew it without your telling me.” He ceased to remember that ever he had suspected her or ever reproached her. It was a mystery to him that this proud, strong, eas, nature should have ever been brought low by any force; but e accepted the fact of it as men in their faith accept miracles. ‘¢ She was such a child; who can tell what they did or said?” he mused, as an infinite tenderness and compassion came over him, This woman was not twenty yet, and she had tasted all the i igh bitterness of life and all its outrages of passion and of vice She was to him like one of the young saints of old, on whom tyrants and torturers spent all the filth and fury of their will, yet could not touch the soul or break the courage of the thing that they dishonored. Woman had not taught him reverence; he had found them frail y7nen he had not found them base; but as great a reverence ag ever moved Gawaine or Sintram moved him toward Vere now. He feared to speak, lest he should offend her; it was hard to give her sympathy, even to give her comprehension, without seeming to offer her insult. He knew that she was too loyal to the man. whose name she bore to bear to hear him blamed, with whatso- ver justice it might be. He was silent, while leaning on his arm and looking down u on the cups and scepters of the green moss on which he re if he looked up at her face he feared his strength of self-control would fail him and his }ips be loosened. | Vere bound together his wild flowers one by one. She _— ; Fake ‘ ; : 4 i af Bit com cboo cS (e(@)