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withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a victim probably to
her mother's ambitious schemes, I ought to come forward to protect her from
undue influence, guard her from unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of
choice, the right of every human being. Yet how was I to do this? She
herself would disdain my interference. Since then I must be an object of
indifference or contempt to her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose
myself before her and the scornful world to the chance of playing the mad
game of a fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several months after my return to
England, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my chief
solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the expectation of seeing
her. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and discernment; in her
pleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned by magnificent
casts, antique vases, and copies of the finest pictures of Raphael,
Correggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I fancied myself in a fairy
retreat untainted by and inaccessible to the noisy contentions of
politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion. On this occasion, my
sister was not alone; nor could I fail to recognise her companion: it was
Idris, the till now unseen object of my mad idolatry.
In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what choice expression and
soft flow of language, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best? How in
poor assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that surrounded her, the
thousand graces that waited unwearied on her. The first thing that struck
you on beholding that charming countenance was its perfect goodness and
frankness; candour sat upon her brow, simplicity in her eyes, heavenly
benignity in her smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as a poplar to
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