‘Her face was like a star all pale and fair’—
Were you looking in the glass when you composed that line?”
“No—” indignantly.
“‘When the morning light is shaken like a banner on the hill’—a good line—a good line—
‘Oh, on such a golden morning
To be living is delight’—
Too much like a faint echo of Wordsworth. The Sea in September—‘blue and austerely bright’—‘austerely bright’—child, how can you marry the right adjectives like that? Morning—‘all the secret fears that haunt the night’—what do you know of the fears that haunt the night?”
“I know something,” said Emily decidedly, remembering her first night at Wyther Grange.
“To a Dead Day—