[Celix-proyecto] {Spam?} geographical statistics

Wed Jan 13 02:12:20 CET 2010

E. Now the characters she had personated grouped themselves around her
bed, all distinct, yet duplicates and multiplications of herself,
mocking her with her own voice, and glaring at her with her own eyes.
Now pleasant summer-scenes at Burleigh Grange brightened the dull walls,
and a memory of the long lane in the white prime of its hawthorn bloom
flowed like a river of fragrance through her chamber. Then there strode
in upon her a form of beauty and terror, and held her by the passion and
gloom of his eye,--and with him crept in a chill and heavy air, like an
exhalation from the rank turf of neglected graves. * * * * * Zelma
recovered from this illness, if it could be called a recovery, to a
state of only tolerable physical health, and a condition of pitiable
mental apathy and languor. She turned with a half-weary, half-petulant
distaste from her former pursuits and pleasures, and abandoned her
profession with a sort of terror,--feeling that its mockery of sorrows,
such as had fallen so crushingly on her unchastened heart, would madden
her utterly. But neither could she endure again the constraint and
conventionalities of English private life; she had died to her art, and
she glided, like a phantom, out of her country, and out of the thoughts
of the public, in whose breath she had lived, for whose pleasure she had
toiled, often from the hidden force of her own sorrows, the elements of
all tragedy seething in her secret heart. Year after year she lived a
wandering, out-of-the-way life on the Continent. It was said that she
went to Spain, sought out her mother's wild kindred, and dwelt with
them, making their life her life, their ways her ways, shrinking neither
from sun-glare nor tempest, privation nor peril. But, at length, tired
of wandering and satiated with adventure, she flung off the Zincala,
returned to England, and even returned, forsworn, to her art, as all do,
or long to do, who have once embraced it from a genuine passion. She
made no effort to obtain an engagement at Covent Garden; for her, that
stage was haunted by a presence more gloomy than Hamlet, more dreadful
than the Ghost. Nor did she seek to tread, with her free, unpractised
step, the classic boards of Drury Lane,--where Garrick, the _Grand
Monarque_ of the Drama, though now toward the end of his
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