Only a Girl's Love. Garvice Charles

Only a Girl's Love - Garvice Charles


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       Charles Garvice

      Only a Girl's Love

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664136749

       ONLY A GIRL'S LOVE.

       CHAPTER II.

       CHAPTER III.

       CHAPTER IV.

       CHAPTER V.

       CHAPTER VI.

       CHAPTER VII.

       CHAPTER VIII.

       CHAPTER IX.

       CHAPTER X.

       CHAPTER XI.

       CHAPTER XII.

       CHAPTER XIII.

       CHAPTER XIV.

       CHAPTER XV.

       CHAPTER XVI.

       CHAPTER XVII.

       CHAPTER XVIII.

       CHAPTER XIX.

       CHAPTER XX.

       CHAPTER XXI.

       CHAPTER XXII.

       CHAPTER XXIII.

       CHAPTER XXIV.

       CHAPTER XXV.

       CHAPTER XXVI.

       CHAPTER XXVII.

       CHAPTER XXVIII.

       CHAPTER XXIX.

       CHAPTER XXX.

       CHAPTER XXXI.

       CHAPTER XXXII.

       CHAPTER XXXIII.

       CHAPTER XXXIV.

       CHAPTER XXXV.

       CHAPTER XXXVI.

       CHAPTER XXXVII.

       CHAPTER XXXVIII.

       CHAPTER XXXIX.

       CHAPTER XL.

       CHAPTER XLI.

       CHAPTER XLII.

       Great Stories by a Great Author

       The New Fiction Series

       BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY

       ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY

       Table of Contents

      CHAPTER I.

      It is a warm evening in early Summer; the sun is setting behind a long range of fir and yew-clad hills, at the feet of which twists in and out, as it follows their curves, a placid, peaceful river. Opposite these hills, and running beside the river, are long-stretching meadows, brilliantly green with fresh-springing grass, and gorgeously yellow with newly-opened buttercups. Above, the sunset sky gleams and glows with fiery red and rich deep chromes. And London is almost within sight.

      It is a beautiful scene, such as one sees only in this England of ours—a scene that defies poet and painter. At this very moment it is defying one of the latter genus; for in a room of a low-browed, thatched-roofed cottage which stood on the margin of the meadow, James Etheridge sat beside his easel, his eyes fixed on the picture framed in the open window, his brush and mahl-stick drooping in his idle hand.

      Unconsciously he, the painter, made a picture worthy of study. Tall, thin, delicately made, with pale face crowned and set in softly-flowing white hair, with gentle, dreamy eyes ever seeking the infinite and unknown, he looked like one of those figures which the old Florentine


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