Explore "The Dark Flower" by John Galsworthy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
At three o'clock next day he called.
In the middle of her white drawing-room, whose latticed window ran the whole length of one wall, stood a little table on which was a silver jar full of early larkspurs, evidently from her garden by the river. And Lennan waited, his eyes fixed on those blossoms so like to little blue butterflies and strange-hued crickets, tethered to the pale green stems. In this room she passed her days, guarded from him. Once a week, at most, he would be able to come there-once a week for an hour or two of the hundred and sixty-eight hours that he longed to be with her.