The Place of Honeymoons (Chapter 6, page 1 of 13)

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Chapter 6

The most beautiful blue Irish eyes in the world gazed out at the dawn
which turned night-blue into day-blue and paled the stars. Rosal lay the
undulating horizon, presently to burst into living flame, transmuting the
dull steel bars of the window into fairy gold, that trick of alchemy so
futilely sought by man. There was a window at the north and another at the
south, likewise barred; but the Irish eyes never sought these two. It was
from the east window only that they could see the long white road that led
to Paris.

The nightingale was truly caged. But the wild heart of the eagle beat in
this nightingale's breast, and the eyes burned as fiercely toward the east
as the east burned toward the west. Sunday and Monday, Tuesday and
Wednesday and Thursday, to-day; and that the five dawns were singular in
beauty and that she had never in her life before witnessed the creation of
five days, one after another, made no impression upon her sense of the
beautiful, so delicate and receptive in ordinary times. She was conscious
that within her the cup of wrath was overflowing. Of other things, such as
eating and sleeping and moving about in her cage (more like an eagle
indeed than a nightingale), recurrence had blunted her perception.

Her clothes were soiled and crumpled, sundrily torn; her hair was in
disorder, and tendrils hung about her temples and forehead--thick black
hair, full of purple tones in the sunlight--for she had not surrendered
peacefully to this incarceration. Dignity, that phase of philosophy which
accepts quietly the inevitable, she had thrown to the winds. She had
fought desperately, primordially, when she had learned that her errand of
mercy was nothing more than a cruel hoax.

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