picture, and gazed into those grey-green eyes till tears of passionate happiness filled my own.
"Oh! my dear, my dear, how shall I pass the hours till I hold you again?"
No thought, then, of my whole life's completion and consummation being a dream.
I staggered up to my room, fell across my bed, and slept heavily and dreamlessly. When I awoke it was high noon. Mildred and her mother were coming to lunch.
I remembered, at one o'clock, Mildred coming and her existence.
Now indeed the dream began.
With a penetrating sense of the futility of any action apart from her, I gave the necessary orders for the reception of my guests. When Mildred and her mother came I received them with cordiality; but my genial phrases all seemed to be someone else's. My voice sounded like an echo; my heart was not there.
Still, the situation was not intolerable, until the hour when afternoon tea was served in the drawing-room. Mildred and mother kept the conversational pot boiling with
An okay ghost/sell-your-soul-to-the-devil story, marred by a few spelling errors and question marks instead of dashes. I'm not a big fan of ghosts or loves that last through the ages, but the writing isn't bad and the plot has the required number of impossible coincidences, so it should satisfy those who like the genre.
Thorne Smith did it better.
When Mr. Devigne inherits a house from his aunt, he finds two pictures in the attic. One is of himself wearing old-fashioned clothes and the other is of a beautiful woman. One night he asks her to come out of the frame and lo and behold she does!
I didn't really care for this story. It's not my cup of tea.
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