She might avoid, that would not come to pass;
As those condemned to death will hope when hope
Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,
And comfort took in hoping that it would
Not be; and though his would-be gallantries
Oft filled her with disgust,[381] and oft provoked
A loathing in her breast, she hated not.
Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,
Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,
Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed: