Under happier circumstances she
would have been a most attractive woman; her natural graces were
many, her emotions were vivid and linked with a bright intelligence,
her natural temper inclined to the nobler modes of life.
Unfortunately, little care had been given to her education; her best
possibilities lay undeveloped; thrown upon her inadequate resources,
she nourished the weaknesses instead of the virtues of her nature.
She was always saying to herself that life had gone by, and was
wasted; for life meant love, and love in her experience had been a
flitting folly, an error of crude years, which should, in all
justice, have been thrown aside and forgotten, allowing her a second
chance. Too late, now. Often she lay through the long nights
shedding tears of misery. Too late; her beauty blurred, her heart
worn with suffering, often poisoned with bitterness. Yet there came
moments of revolt, when she rose and looked at herself in the
mirror, and asked----But for Olga, she would have tried to shape
her own destiny.
To-day she could look up at the sunshine. Irene was coming.
A sound of young voices in the quiet road; then the shimmer of a
bright costume, the gleam of a face all health and charm and
merriment. Irene came into the garden, followed by her brother, and
behind them Olga.
Her voice woke the dull house; of a sudden it was alive, responding
to the cheerful mood of its inhabitants.
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