Explore "Olive" by Dinah Mulock on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown. She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet him -- rich "in the dew of youth. " Despite her weary vigil, the balmy morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart. It was a new and pleasant thing to wake beneath the same roof as Harold Gwynne; to know that his face would meet her when she descended -- that she would walk and talk with him the whole day long.
Never did any woman think less of herself than Olive Rothesay. Yet as she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, she felt glad that it _was_ beautiful. Once she thought of what Marion had told her about some one saying she was "like a dove. " Who said it? Not Harold -- that was impossible. Arranging her dress, she looked a moment, with half-mournful curiosity, at the pale, small face reflected in the mirror.