Missy leaned farther out the window to sniff in that damp, sweet
scent of unseen flowers, to feel the white moonlight on her hand.
She had often wished that, by some magic, the world might be enabled
to spin out its whole time in such a gossamer, irradiant sheen as
this--a sort of moon-haunted night-without-end, keeping you tingling
with beautiful, blurred, indescribable feelings.
But to-night, for the first time, Missy felt skeptical as to that
earlier desire. She still found the night beautiful--oh,
inexpressibly beautiful!--but moonlight nights were what made lovers
want to look into each other's eyes, and sing each other love songs
"with expression." To be sure, she had formerly considered this very
tendency an elysian feature of such nights; but that was when she
thought that love always was right for its own sake, that true
lovers never should be thwarted. She still held by that belief; and
yet--she visioned Uncle Charlie, dear Uncle Charlie, so fond of
buying Aunt Isabel extravagant organdies and slippers to match; so
like grandpa and father--and King Mark!
Missy had always hated King Mark, the lawful husband, the enemy of
true love.
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