fain Would know the truth. Quite well, dear Lady,
quite.
She smiled in her content. So many slain, You must
forgive me for a little fright.
And he forgave her, not alone for that, But because she was
fingering his heart,
Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so Only
to ease her smart
Of painful, apprehensive longing. At
Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat
An hour there. The thrush flew to
and fro.
XIX
The Lady Eunice supped alone that day, As
always since Sir Everard had gone,
In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array Of faded portraits
in carved mouldings shone.
Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked. Van Dykes with
long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout
And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame, A
peony just burst out,
With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked
Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked
It with the best, and scorned to change their
name.
XX
A sturdy family, and old besides, Much older
than her own, the Earls of Crowe.
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