Download Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27, 1883 by Winchester, Simon

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  • by: by Winchester, Simon
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  • ISBN-10: 0066212855
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  • Publisher by: HarperCollins Publishers
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  • Add date: 13.02.2017
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I am content," last words of John Quincy Adams, uttered February 21, 1848. The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded in white napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled footfalls were heard there, and the light stole in solemnly through windows partially darkened by closed blinds. The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the drooping angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form,--sleeping never to waken. There Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27 lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been wont to wear when living; the rose-colored light through Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27 curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a warm glow.

The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure cheek; the head was turned a little to one side, as if in natural steep, but there was diffused over every lineament of the face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, which showed it was no 1883 or temporary sleep, but the long, sacred rest which "He giveth to his beloved. " There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva. neither darkness nor shadow of death; only such a bright fading as when the morning star fades in the golden dawn.

Thine is the Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27 without the battle,--the crown without the conflict. So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there gazing. who shall say what he did think. for, from the hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, "she is gone," it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy "dimness of anguish.

" He had heard voices around him; he had had questions asked, and answered them; they had asked him when he would have the funeral, and where they should lay her; and he had answered, impatiently, that he cared not.

Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber; volatile, fickle and childish, as they generally were, they were soft-hearted and full of feeling; and, while Miss Ophelia presided over the general details of order and neatness, it was their hands that added those soft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that took from the death-room the grim and ghastly air which too often marks a New England funeral.

There were still flowers on the shelves,--all white, delicate and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's little table, covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase, with Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27 single white moss rose-bud in it. The folds of the drapery, the fall 1883 the curtains, had been arranged and rearranged, by Adolph and Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27, with that nicety of eye which characterizes their race.

Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Rosa tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers. She stepped back when she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully; but, seeing that he did not observe her, she came forward to place them around the dead. Clare saw her as in a dream, while she placed in the small hands a fair cape jessamine, and, with admirable taste, disposed other flowers around the couch.

The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with crying, appeared, holding something 1883 her apron. Rosa made a quick forbidding gesture; but she took a step into the room. "You must go out," said Rosa, in a sharp, positive whisper; "_you_ haven't any business here!" "O, do let me.

I brought a flower,--such a pretty one!" said Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. "Do let me put just one there. " "Get along!" said Rosa, more decidedly. "Let her stay!" said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot. "She shall come. " Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid her offering at the feet of the corpse; then suddenly, with a wild and bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept, and moaned aloud.

Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and silence her; but in vain. "O, Miss Eva. oh, Miss Eva. I wish I 's dead, too,--I do!" There was a piercing wildness in the cry; the blood flushed into St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears he had shed since Eva died stood in his eyes. "Get up, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice; "don't cry so.

Miss Eva is gone to heaven; she is an 1883.

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