Explore "Blanche" by Mary Louisa Molesworth on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
May again! A later spring this year than last. As Blanche Derwent stood at the window of a house in a broad, airy street, at one end of which the trees of the Park were to be seen, she could scarcely believe it was same time of year, the same date, actually, as the day on which the news of their reversal of fortune had reached her mother at Pinnerton Lodge.
"That was such a lovely summery day," she said to herself. "I remember it so well; Stasy and I walking home from Blissmore, laughing and talking -- I even remember what we were talking about -- how Stasy was flattering me; " and Blanche's colour deepened a little. "And then to find poor mamma as she was when we got home! It was dreadful. And yet, how wonderfully all that side of things has come right! I _should_ be grateful, and I think I am; " but still she gave a little sigh.