Mary E. Wilkins Freeman,
The Scent of the Roses
(1887)
“ Clarissa went at her old work again. She moved among the rose-trees, a prim, delicate figure, in her old green and white gown, and cut every loose rose carefully. She was bent, in her graceful parsimoniousness, on saving all that she could of the sweetness of the world; no matter how poorly she might live herself, her delight in this would not forsake her. She had lost love and youth and beauty, but she still got a little comfort out of her unselfishness and her roses. One is not entirely desolate while one can follow his instincts. Anne laughed at her. ”
