The European: Chapter XI [C20]

This page is read only. You can view the source, but not change it. Ask your administrator if you think this is wrong.
<!DOCTYPE markdown>

# The European: Chapter XI

CHAPTER XI

Since that visit paid by the Baroness Münster to Mrs. Acton, of which
some account was given at an earlier stage of this narrative, the
intercourse between these two ladies had been neither frequent nor
intimate. It was not that Mrs. Acton had failed to appreciate Madame
Münster’s charms; on the contrary, her perception of the graces of
manner and conversation of her brilliant visitor had been only too
acute. Mrs. Acton was, as they said in Boston, very “intense,” and her
impressions were apt to be too many for her. The state of her health
required the restriction of emotion; and this is why, receiving, as she
sat in her eternal arm-chair, very few visitors, even of the soberest
local type, she had been obliged to limit the number of her interviews
with a lady whose costume and manner recalled to her imagination--Mrs.
Acton’s imagination was a marvel--all that she had ever read of the most
stirring historical periods. But she had sent the Baroness a great many
quaintly-worded messages and a great many nosegays from her garden and
baskets of beautiful fruit. Felix had eaten the fruit, and the Baroness
had arranged the flowers and returned the baskets and the messages. On
the day that followed that rainy Sunday of which mention has been made,
Eugenia determined to go and pay the beneficent invalid a _“visite
d’adieux”_; so it was that, to herself, she qualified her enterprise.
It may be noted that neither on the Sunday evening nor on the Monday
morning had she received that expected visit from Robert Acton. To his
own consciousness, evidently he was “keeping away;” and as the Baroness,
on her side, was keeping away from her uncle’s, whither, for several
days, Felix had been the unembarrassed bearer of apologies and regrets
for absence, chance had not taken the cards from the hands of design.
Mr. Wentworth and his daughters had respected Eugenia’s seclusion;
certain intervals of mysterious retirement appeared to them, vaguely, a
natural part of the graceful, rhythmic movement of so remarkable a
life. Gertrude especially held these periods in honor; she wondered
what Madame Münster did at such times, but she would not have permitted
herself to inquire too curiously.

The long rain had freshened the air, and twelve hours’ brilliant
sunshine had dried the roads; so that the Baroness, in the late
afternoon, proposing to walk to Mrs. Acton’s, exposed herself to no
great discomfort. As with her charming undulating step she moved along
the clean, grassy margin of the road, beneath the thickly-hanging boughs
of the orchards, through the quiet of the hour and place and the rich
maturity of the summer, she was even conscious of a sort of luxurious
melancholy. The Baroness had the amiable weakness of attaching herself
to places--even when she had begun with a little aversion; and now, with
the prospect of departure, she felt tenderly toward this well-wooded
corner of the Western world, where the sunsets were so beautiful and
one’s ambitions were so pure. Mrs. Acton was able to receive her; but on
entering this lady’s large, freshly-scented room the Baroness saw that
she was looking very ill. She was wonderfully white and transparent,
and, in her flowered arm-chair, she made no attempt to move. But she
flushed a little--like a young girl, the Baroness thought--and she
rested her clear, smiling eyes upon those of her visitor. Her voice
was low and monotonous, like a voice that had never expressed any human
passions.

“I have come to bid you good-bye,” said Eugenia. “I shall soon be going
away.”

“When are you going away?”

“Very soon--any day.”

“I am very sorry,” said Mrs. Acton. “I hoped you would stay--always.”

“Always?” Eugenia demanded.

“Well, I mean a long time,” said Mrs. Acton, in her sweet, feeble tone.
“They tell me you are so comfortable--that you have got such a beautiful
little house.”

Eugenia stared--that is, she smiled; she thought of her poor little
chalet and she wondered whether her hostess were jesting. “Yes, my house
is exquisite,” she said; “though not to be compared to yours.”

“And my son is so fond of going to see you,” Mrs. Acton added. “I am
afraid my son will miss you.”

“Ah, dear madam,” said Eugenia, with a little laugh, “I can’t stay in
America for your son!”

“Don’t you like America?”

The Baroness looked at the front of her dress. “If I liked it--that
would not be staying for your son!”

Mrs. Acton gazed at her with her grave, tender eyes, as if she had not
quite understood. The Baroness at last found something irritating in
the sweet, soft stare of her hostess; and if one were not bound to be
merciful to great invalids she would almost have taken the liberty of
pronouncing her, mentally, a fool. “I am afraid, then, I shall never see
you again,” said Mrs. Acton. “You know I am dying.”

“Ah, dear madam,” murmured Eugenia.

“I want to leave my children cheerful and happy. My daughter will
probably marry her cousin.”

“Two such interesting young people,” said the Baroness, vaguely. She was
not thinking of Clifford Wentworth.

“I feel so tranquil about my end,” Mrs. Acton went on. “It is coming
so easily, so surely.” And she paused, with her mild gaze always on
Eugenia’s.

The Baroness hated to be reminded of death; but even in its imminence,
so far as Mrs. Acton was concerned, she preserved her good manners. “Ah,
madam, you are too charming an invalid,” she rejoined.

But the delicacy of this rejoinder was apparently lost upon her hostess,
who went on in her low, reasonable voice. “I want to leave my children
bright and comfortable. You seem to me all so happy here--just as you
are. So I wish you could stay. It would be so pleasant for Robert.”

Eugenia wondered what she meant by its being pleasant for Robert; but
she felt that she would never know what such a woman as that meant.
She got up; she was afraid Mrs. Acton would tell her again that she
was dying. “Good-bye, dear madam,” she said. “I must remember that your
strength is precious.”

Mrs. Acton took her hand and held it a moment. “Well, you _have_ been
happy here, haven’t you? And you like us all, don’t you? I wish you
would stay,” she added, “in your beautiful little house.”

She had told Eugenia that her waiting-woman would be in the hall, to
show her downstairs; but the large landing outside her door was empty,
and Eugenia stood there looking about. She felt irritated; the dying
lady had not _“la main heureuse.”_ She passed slowly downstairs, still
looking about. The broad staircase made a great bend, and in the angle
was a high window, looking westward, with a deep bench, covered with
a row of flowering plants in curious old pots of blue china-ware. The
yellow afternoon light came in through the flowers and flickered a
little on the white wainscots. Eugenia paused a moment; the house was
perfectly still, save for the ticking, somewhere, of a great clock. The
lower hall stretched away at the foot of the stairs, half covered over
with a large Oriental rug. Eugenia lingered a little, noticing a great
many things. _“Comme c’est bien!”_ she said to herself; such a large,
solid, irreproachable basis of existence the place seemed to her to
indicate. And then she reflected that Mrs. Acton was soon to withdraw
from it. The reflection accompanied her the rest of the way downstairs,
where she paused again, making more observations. The hall was extremely
broad, and on either side of the front door was a wide, deeply-set
window, which threw the shadows of everything back into the house.
There were high-backed chairs along the wall and big Eastern vases upon
tables, and, on either side, a large cabinet with a glass front and
little curiosities within, dimly gleaming. The doors were open--into the
darkened parlor, the library, the dining-room. All these rooms seemed
empty. Eugenia passed along, and stopped a moment on the threshold of
each. _“Comme c’est bien!”_ she murmured again; she had thought of just
such a house as this when she decided to come to America. She opened
the front door for herself--her light tread had summoned none of the
servants--and on the threshold she gave a last look. Outside, she
was still in the humor for curious contemplation; so instead of going
directly down the little drive, to the gate, she wandered away towards
the garden, which lay to the right of the house. She had not gone
many yards over the grass before she paused quickly; she perceived a
gentleman stretched upon the level verdure, beneath a tree. He had not
heard her coming, and he lay motionless, flat on his back, with his
hands clasped under his head, staring up at the sky; so that the
Baroness was able to reflect, at her leisure, upon the question of
his identity. It was that of a person who had lately been much in her
thoughts; but her first impulse, nevertheless, was to turn away; the
last thing she desired was to have the air of coming in quest of Robert
Acton. The gentleman on the grass, however, gave her no time to decide;
he could not long remain unconscious of so agreeable a presence. He
rolled back his eyes, stared, gave an exclamation, and then jumped up.
He stood an instant, looking at her.

“Excuse my ridiculous position,” he said.

“I have just now no sense of the ridiculous. But, in case you have,
don’t imagine I came to see you.”

“Take care,” rejoined Acton, “how you put it into my head! I was
thinking of you.”

“The occupation of extreme leisure!” said the Baroness. “To think of a
woman when you are in that position is no compliment.”

“I didn’t say I was thinking well!” Acton affirmed, smiling.

She looked at him, and then she turned away.

“Though I didn’t come to see you,” she said, “remember at least that I
am within your gates.”

“I am delighted--I am honored! Won’t you come into the house?”

“I have just come out of it. I have been calling upon your mother. I
have been bidding her farewell.”

“Farewell?” Acton demanded.

“I am going away,” said the Baroness. And she turned away again, as if
to illustrate her meaning.

“When are you going?” asked Acton, standing a moment in his place. But
the Baroness made no answer, and he followed her.

“I came this way to look at your garden,” she said, walking back to the
gate, over the grass. “But I must go.”

“Let me at least go with you.” He went with her, and they said nothing
till they reached the gate. It was open, and they looked down the road
which was darkened over with long bosky shadows. “Must you go straight
home?” Acton asked.

But she made no answer. She said, after a moment, “Why have you not been
to see me?” He said nothing, and then she went on, “Why don’t you answer
me?”

“I am trying to invent an answer,” Acton confessed.

“Have you none ready?”

“None that I can tell you,” he said. “But let me walk with you now.”

“You may do as you like.”

She moved slowly along the road, and Acton went with her. Presently he
said, “If I had done as I liked I would have come to see you several
times.”

“Is that invented?” asked Eugenia.

“No, that is natural. I stayed away because----”

“Ah, here comes the reason, then!”

“Because I wanted to think about you.”

“Because you wanted to lie down!” said the Baroness. “I have seen you
lie down--almost--in my drawing-room.”

Acton stopped in the road, with a movement which seemed to beg her to
linger a little. She paused, and he looked at her awhile; he thought her
very charming. “You are jesting,” he said; “but if you are really going
away it is very serious.”

“If I stay,” and she gave a little laugh, “it is more serious still!”

“When shall you go?”

“As soon as possible.”

“And why?”

“Why should I stay?”

“Because we all admire you so.”

“That is not a reason. I am admired also in Europe.” And she began to
walk homeward again.

“What could I say to keep you?” asked Acton. He wanted to keep her, and
it was a fact that he had been thinking of her for a week. He was in
love with her now; he was conscious of that, or he thought he was; and
the only question with him was whether he could trust her.

“What you can say to keep me?” she repeated. “As I want very much to go
it is not in my interest to tell you. Besides, I can’t imagine.”

He went on with her in silence; he was much more affected by what she
had told him than appeared. Ever since that evening of his return from
Newport her image had had a terrible power to trouble him. What Clifford
Wentworth had told him--that had affected him, too, in an adverse sense;
but it had not liberated him from the discomfort of a charm of which his
intelligence was impatient. “She is not honest, she is not honest,” he
kept murmuring to himself. That is what he had been saying to the summer
sky, ten minutes before. Unfortunately, he was unable to say it
finally, definitively; and now that he was near her it seemed to matter
wonderfully little. “She is a woman who will lie,” he had said to
himself. Now, as he went along, he reminded himself of this observation;
but it failed to frighten him as it had done before. He almost wished he
could make her lie and then convict her of it, so that he might see how
he should like that. He kept thinking of this as he walked by her side,
while she moved forward with her light, graceful dignity. He had sat
with her before; he had driven with her; but he had never walked with
her.

“By Jove, how _comme il faut_ she is!” he said, as he observed her
sidewise. When they reached the cottage in the orchard she passed into
the gate without asking him to follow; but she turned round, as he stood
there, to bid him good-night.

“I asked you a question the other night which you never answered,” he
said. “Have you sent off that document--liberating yourself?”

She hesitated for a single moment--very naturally. Then, “Yes,” she
said, simply.

He turned away; he wondered whether that would do for his lie. But he
saw her again that evening, for the Baroness reappeared at her uncle’s.
He had little talk with her, however; two gentlemen had driven out from
Boston, in a buggy, to call upon Mr. Wentworth and his daughters,
and Madame Münster was an object of absorbing interest to both of the
visitors. One of them, indeed, said nothing to her; he only sat and
watched with intense gravity, and leaned forward solemnly, presenting
his ear (a very large one), as if he were deaf, whenever she dropped
an observation. He had evidently been impressed with the idea of her
misfortunes and reverses: he never smiled. His companion adopted a
lighter, easier style; sat as near as possible to Madame Münster;
attempted to draw her out, and proposed every few moments a new topic
of conversation. Eugenia was less vividly responsive than usual and
had less to say than, from her brilliant reputation, her interlocutor
expected, upon the relative merits of European and American
institutions; but she was inaccessible to Robert Acton, who roamed about
the piazza with his hands in his pockets, listening for the grating
sound of the buggy from Boston, as it should be brought round to the
side-door. But he listened in vain, and at last he lost patience. His
sister came to him and begged him to take her home, and he presently
went off with her. Eugenia observed him leaving the house with Lizzie;
in her present mood the fact seemed a contribution to her irritated
conviction that he had several precious qualities. “Even that
_mal-élevée_ little girl,” she reflected, “makes him do what she
wishes.”

She had been sitting just within one of the long windows that opened
upon the piazza; but very soon after Acton had gone away she got up
abruptly, just when the talkative gentleman from Boston was asking her
what she thought of the “moral tone” of that city. On the piazza she
encountered Clifford Wentworth, coming round from the other side of the
house. She stopped him; she told him she wished to speak to him.

“Why didn’t you go home with your cousin?” she asked.

Clifford stared. “Why, Robert has taken her,” he said.

“Exactly so. But you don’t usually leave that to him.”

“Oh,” said Clifford, “I want to see those fellows start off. They don’t
know how to drive.”

“It is not, then, that you have quarreled with your cousin?”

Clifford reflected a moment, and then with a simplicity which had, for
the Baroness, a singularly baffling quality, “Oh, no; we have made up!”
 he said.

She looked at him for some moments; but Clifford had begun to be afraid
of the Baroness’s looks, and he endeavored, now, to shift himself out
of their range. “Why do you never come to see me any more?” she asked.
“Have I displeased you?”

“Displeased me? Well, I guess not!” said Clifford, with a laugh.

“Why haven’t you come, then?”

“Well, because I am afraid of getting shut up in that back room.”

Eugenia kept looking at him. “I should think you would like that.”

“Like it!” cried Clifford.

“I should, if I were a young man calling upon a charming woman.”

“A charming woman isn’t much use to me when I am shut up in that back
room!”

“I am afraid I am not of much use to you anywhere!” said Madame Münster.
“And yet you know how I have offered to be.”

“Well,” observed Clifford, by way of response, “there comes the buggy.”

“Never mind the buggy. Do you know I am going away?”

“Do you mean now?”

“I mean in a few days. I leave this place.”

“You are going back to Europe?”

“To Europe, where you are to come and see me.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll come out there,” said Clifford.

“But before that,” Eugenia declared, “you must come and see me here.”

“Well, I shall keep clear of that back room!” rejoined her simple young
kinsman.

The Baroness was silent a moment. “Yes, you must come frankly--boldly.
That will be very much better. I see that now.”

“I see it!” said Clifford. And then, in an instant, “What’s the matter
with that buggy?” His practiced ear had apparently detected an unnatural
creak in the wheels of the light vehicle which had been brought to the
portico, and he hurried away to investigate so grave an anomaly.

The Baroness walked homeward, alone, in the starlight, asking herself
a question. Was she to have gained nothing--was she to have gained
nothing?

Gertrude Wentworth had held a silent place in the little circle gathered
about the two gentlemen from Boston. She was not interested in the
visitors; she was watching Madame Münster, as she constantly watched
her. She knew that Eugenia also was not interested--that she was bored;
and Gertrude was absorbed in study of the problem how, in spite of
her indifference and her absent attention, she managed to have such a
charming manner. That was the manner Gertrude would have liked to have;
she determined to cultivate it, and she wished that--to give her the
charm--she might in future very often be bored. While she was engaged in
these researches, Felix Young was looking for Charlotte, to whom he had
something to say. For some time, now, he had had something to say to
Charlotte, and this evening his sense of the propriety of holding some
special conversation with her had reached the motive-point--resolved
itself into acute and delightful desire. He wandered through the empty
rooms on the large ground-floor of the house, and found her at last in
a small apartment denominated, for reasons not immediately apparent, Mr.
Wentworth’s “office:” an extremely neat and well-dusted room, with an
array of law-books, in time-darkened sheep-skin, on one of the walls; a
large map of the United States on the other, flanked on either side by
an old steel engraving of one of Raphael’s Madonnas; and on the third
several glass cases containing specimens of butterflies and beetles.
Charlotte was sitting by a lamp, embroidering a slipper. Felix did not
ask for whom the slipper was destined; he saw it was very large.

He moved a chair toward her and sat down, smiling as usual, but, at
first, not speaking. She watched him, with her needle poised, and with
a certain shy, fluttered look which she always wore when he approached
her. There was something in Felix’s manner that quickened her modesty,
her self-consciousness; if absolute choice had been given her she would
have preferred never to find herself alone with him; and in fact,
though she thought him a most brilliant, distinguished, and well-meaning
person, she had exercised a much larger amount of tremulous tact than
he had ever suspected, to circumvent the accident of _tête-à-tête_. Poor
Charlotte could have given no account of the matter that would not have
seemed unjust both to herself and to her foreign kinsman; she could only
have said--or rather, she would never have said it--that she did
not like so much gentleman’s society at once. She was not reassured,
accordingly, when he began, emphasizing his words with a kind of
admiring radiance, “My dear cousin, I am enchanted at finding you
alone.”

“I am very often alone,” Charlotte observed. Then she quickly added, “I
don’t mean I am lonely!”

“So clever a woman as you is never lonely,” said Felix. “You have
company in your beautiful work.” And he glanced at the big slipper.

“I like to work,” declared Charlotte, simply.

“So do I!” said her companion. “And I like to idle too. But it is not
to idle that I have come in search of you. I want to tell you something
very particular.”

“Well,” murmured Charlotte; “of course, if you must----”

“My dear cousin,” said Felix, “it’s nothing that a young lady may not
listen to. At least I suppose it isn’t. But _voyons_; you shall judge. I
am terribly in love.”

“Well, Felix,” began Miss Wentworth, gravely. But her very gravity
appeared to check the development of her phrase.

“I am in love with your sister; but in love, Charlotte--in love!” the
young man pursued. Charlotte had laid her work in her lap; her hands
were tightly folded on top of it; she was staring at the carpet. “In
short, I’m in love, dear lady,” said Felix. “Now I want you to help me.”

“To help you?” asked Charlotte, with a tremor.

“I don’t mean with Gertrude; she and I have a perfect understanding; and
oh, how well she understands one! I mean with your father and with the
world in general, including Mr. Brand.”

“Poor Mr. Brand!” said Charlotte, slowly, but with a simplicity which
made it evident to Felix that the young minister had not repeated to
Miss Wentworth the talk that had lately occurred between them.

“Ah, now, don’t say ‘poor’ Mr. Brand! I don’t pity Mr. Brand at all.
But I pity your father a little, and I don’t want to displease him.
Therefore, you see, I want you to plead for me. You don’t think me very
shabby, eh?”

“Shabby?” exclaimed Charlotte softly, for whom Felix represented the
most polished and iridescent qualities of mankind.

“I don’t mean in my appearance,” rejoined Felix, laughing; for Charlotte
was looking at his boots. “I mean in my conduct. You don’t think it’s an
abuse of hospitality?”

“To--to care for Gertrude?” asked Charlotte.

“To have really expressed one’s self. Because I _have_ expressed myself,
Charlotte; I must tell you the whole truth--I have! Of course I want to
marry her--and here is the difficulty. I held off as long as I could;
but she is such a terribly fascinating person! She’s a strange creature,
Charlotte; I don’t believe you really know her.” Charlotte took up her
tapestry again, and again she laid it down. “I know your father has had
higher views,” Felix continued; “and I think you have shared them. You
have wanted to marry her to Mr. Brand.”

“Oh, no,” said Charlotte, very earnestly. “Mr. Brand has always admired
her. But we did not want anything of that kind.”

Felix stared. “Surely, marriage was what you proposed.”

“Yes; but we didn’t wish to force her.”

“_A la bonne heure!_ That’s very unsafe you know. With these arranged
marriages there is often the deuce to pay.”

“Oh, Felix,” said Charlotte, “we didn’t want to ‘arrange.’”

“I am delighted to hear that. Because in such cases--even when the
woman is a thoroughly good creature--she can’t help looking for a
compensation. A charming fellow comes along--and _voilà!_” Charlotte sat
mutely staring at the floor, and Felix presently added, “Do go on with
your slipper, I like to see you work.”

Charlotte took up her variegated canvas, and began to draw vague blue
stitches in a big round rose. “If Gertrude is so--so strange,” she said,
“why do you want to marry her?”

“Ah, that’s it, dear Charlotte! I like strange women; I always have
liked them. Ask Eugenia! And Gertrude is wonderful; she says the most
beautiful things!”

Charlotte looked at him, almost for the first time, as if her meaning
required to be severely pointed. “You have a great influence over her.”

“Yes--and no!” said Felix. “I had at first, I think; but now it is six
of one and half-a-dozen of the other; it is reciprocal. She affects me
strongly--for she _is_ so strong. I don’t believe you know her; it’s a
beautiful nature.”

“Oh, yes, Felix; I have always thought Gertrude’s nature beautiful.”

“Well, if you think so now,” cried the young man, “wait and see! She’s
a folded flower. Let me pluck her from the parent tree and you will see
her expand. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

“I don’t understand you,” murmured Charlotte. “I _can’t_, Felix.”

“Well, you can understand this--that I beg you to say a good word for
me to your father. He regards me, I naturally believe, as a very light
fellow, a Bohemian, an irregular character. Tell him I am not all this;
if I ever was, I have forgotten it. I am fond of pleasure--yes; but of
innocent pleasure. Pain is all one; but in pleasure, you know, there are
tremendous distinctions. Say to him that Gertrude is a folded flower and
that I am a serious man!”

Charlotte got up from her chair slowly rolling up her work. “We know you
are very kind to everyone, Felix,” she said. “But we are extremely sorry
for Mr. Brand.”

“Of course you are--you especially! Because,” added Felix hastily, “you
are a woman. But I don’t pity him. It ought to be enough for any man
that you take an interest in him.”

“It is not enough for Mr. Brand,” said Charlotte, simply. And she stood
there a moment, as if waiting conscientiously for anything more that
Felix might have to say.

“Mr. Brand is not so keen about his marriage as he was,” he presently
said. “He is afraid of your sister. He begins to think she is wicked.”

Charlotte looked at him now with beautiful, appealing eyes--eyes into
which he saw the tears rising. “Oh, Felix, Felix,” she cried, “what have
you done to her?”

“I think she was asleep; I have waked her up!”

But Charlotte, apparently, was really crying, she walked straight out
of the room. And Felix, standing there and meditating, had the apparent
brutality to take satisfaction in her tears.

Late that night Gertrude, silent and serious, came to him in the garden;
it was a kind of appointment. Gertrude seemed to like appointments.
She plucked a handful of heliotrope and stuck it into the front of
her dress, but she said nothing. They walked together along one of the
paths, and Felix looked at the great, square, hospitable house, massing
itself vaguely in the starlight, with all its windows darkened.

“I have a little of a bad conscience,” he said. “I oughtn’t to meet you
this way till I have got your father’s consent.”

Gertrude looked at him for some time. “I don’t understand you.”

“You very often say that,” he said. “Considering how little we
understand each other, it is a wonder how well we get on!”

“We have done nothing but meet since you came here--but meet alone. The
first time I ever saw you we were alone,” Gertrude went on. “What is the
difference now? Is it because it is at night?”

“The difference, Gertrude,” said Felix, stopping in the path, “the
difference is that I love you more--more than before!” And then they
stood there, talking, in the warm stillness and in front of the closed
dark house. “I have been talking to Charlotte--been trying to bespeak
her interest with your father. She has a kind of sublime perversity; was
ever a woman so bent upon cutting off her own head?”

“You are too careful,” said Gertrude; “you are too diplomatic.”

“Well,” cried the young man, “I didn’t come here to make anyone
unhappy!”

Gertrude looked round her awhile in the odorous darkness. “I will do
anything you please,” she said.

“For instance?” asked Felix, smiling.

“I will go away. I will do anything you please.”

Felix looked at her in solemn admiration. “Yes, we will go away,” he
said. “But we will make peace first.”

Gertrude looked about her again, and then she broke out, passionately,
“Why do they try to make one feel guilty? Why do they make it so
difficult? Why can’t they understand?”

“I will make them understand!” said Felix. He drew her hand into his
arm, and they wandered about in the garden, talking, for an hour.
translate/the_europeans/ch11.txt · Last modified: 2025/11/06 01:12 by 127.0.0.1