She sighed a little, even as she smiled. She, who had divined so much more of the truth than the blunter perceptions of a man had ever suspected, she, with that melancholy presage and superstitious sadness which were dormant in her blood, thought, with a passing chill of dread:
‘Our joy is like the basil plant of Isabella. It blossoms out of death!’
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
- [1] A fact.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of contents created by Transcriber and placed into the public domain.
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.
Retained idiosyncratic, antiquated and inconsistent spellings.