Anne Douglas Sedgwick

“ It is not Jerry who is the difficulty. It is Alix.”
“We must give her time, you see,” Giles murmured. “Her pride had such a blow.”
“Give her time! I would give her anything!” madame Vervier exclaimed. “But I can do nothing with Alix.”—Rien! rien! rien! she said in French with a crescendo of grief and impatience almost comic to his ear for all its pathos. “You have altered my Alix for me, you English, Giles. You have given her a different heart. It is strange, strange to me—and bitter—to feel how changed she is. She loves me. More than ever. ”

“ Not when the child has reached Alix's age. You don't want her to marry a man she does not love.”
“Love! Why should she not love him, since she loves nobody else!” cried madame Vervier, a deep exasperation thrilling in her voice. “And even if she did not love him, she cares quite enough. He is an admirable parti, this Jerry; I could not have chosen better had I been free to choose; he is an admirable parti and can give her all that I cannot give; security, position, wealth. Such a marriage would atone for everything that my darling has lacked. ”

“ A charm of goldfinches. And what a happy name. They look that.” Madame Vervier's eyes followed the flight of the bright birds. “I wish one did not have to think of snares and cages when one sees them. Our people are so cruel for birds. I wish such happy things might escape the snare.”
“A great many do. We shouldn't be seeing that charm now unless a great many escaped,” Giles tried to smile at her.
“But it is the way of life, is it not, to snare and spoil happiness,” said madame Vervier. ”