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“They’re going to waltz again,Wales Drakt Barn,” said Stephen,Marc-Andre ter Stegen Jersey, bending to speak to her, with that glance and tone of subdued tenderness which young dreams create to themselves in the summer woods when low, cooing voices fill the air. Such glances and tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that is half stifling with glaring gas and hard flirtation.
“They are going to waltz again. It is rather dizzy work to look on, and the room is very warm; shall we walk about a little?”
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“How strange and unreal the trees and flowers look with the lights among them!” said Maggie, in a low voice. “They look as if they belonged to an enchanted land, and would never fade away; I could fancy they were all made of jewels.”
She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke,Willy Caballero Jersey, and Stephen made no answer; but he was looking at her; and does not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling darkness mute,Singapore Drakt, and light eloquent? Something strangely powerful there was in the light of Stephen’s long gaze, for it made Maggie’s face turn toward it and look upward at it,Ron Vlaar Jersey, slowly,Presnel Kimpembe Jersey, like a flower at the ascending brightness. And they walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking; without feeling anything but that long, grave,Bayern Munchen Jerseys, mutual gaze which has the solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. The hovering thought that they must and would renounce each other made this moment of mute confession more intense in its rapture.
But they had reached the end of the conservatory, and were obliged to pause and turn. The change of movement brought a new consciousness to Maggie; she blushed deeply,Gael Clichy Jersey, turned away her head, and drew her arm from Stephen’s, going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood motionless, and still pale.
“Oh, may I get this rose?” said Maggie,Achraf Hakimi Jersey, making a great effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense of irretrievable confession. “I think I am quite wicked with roses; I like to gather them and smell them till they have no scent left.”
Stephen was mute; he was incapable of putting a sentence together, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward toward the large half-opened rose that had attracted her. Who has not felt the beauty of a woman’s arm? The unspeakable suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpled elbow, and all the varied gently lessening curves, down to the delicate wrist,Gianluigi Buffon Jersey, with its tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm softness. A woman’s arm touched the soul of a great sculptor two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for the Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the timeworn mar
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