Explore "The Seven Streams" by Warwick Deeping on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was evening, and Holy Guard was wrapped in silence, save that the sea laughed and clamoured on the rocks beneath.
Up the great stairway climbed Blanche the Duchess, with a purple cloak thrown over her shoulders and a small silver cross held in one hand. Solemnity dwelt on her face, as though joy and pain held converse there, while life and love were not accorded. Shadows there were beneath her eyes, and a sad smile playing about her mouth. Her hair seemed whiter than of yore, and age more manifest, as though her youth gave out at last, and bowed its head.