The Ebony Frame

Fiction & Literature, Classics
Cover of the book The Ebony Frame by Edith Nesbit, WS
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Author: Edith Nesbit ISBN: 9782291006411
Publisher: WS Publication: March 17, 2018
Imprint: WS Language: English
Author: Edith Nesbit
ISBN: 9782291006411
Publisher: WS
Publication: March 17, 2018
Imprint: WS
Language: English

"""Oh! my dear, my dear, how shall I pass the hours till I hold you again?""

No thought, then, of my whole life's completion and consummation being a dream.

I staggered up to my room, fell across my bed, and slept heavily and dreamlessly. When I awoke it was high noon. Mildred and her mother were coming to lunch.

I remembered, at one o'clock, Mildred coming and her existence.

Now indeed the dream began.

With a penetrating sense of the futility of any action apart from her, I gave the necessary orders for the reception of my guests. When Mildred and her mother came I received them with cordiality; but my genial phrases all seemed to be someone else's. My voice sounded like an echo; my heart was not there.

Still, the situation was not intolerable, until the hour when afternoon tea was served in the drawing-room. Mildred and mother kept the conversational pot boiling with"

View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart

"""Oh! my dear, my dear, how shall I pass the hours till I hold you again?""

No thought, then, of my whole life's completion and consummation being a dream.

I staggered up to my room, fell across my bed, and slept heavily and dreamlessly. When I awoke it was high noon. Mildred and her mother were coming to lunch.

I remembered, at one o'clock, Mildred coming and her existence.

Now indeed the dream began.

With a penetrating sense of the futility of any action apart from her, I gave the necessary orders for the reception of my guests. When Mildred and her mother came I received them with cordiality; but my genial phrases all seemed to be someone else's. My voice sounded like an echo; my heart was not there.

Still, the situation was not intolerable, until the hour when afternoon tea was served in the drawing-room. Mildred and mother kept the conversational pot boiling with"

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