The Green Bough

s of history, impersonally, without regard to the conventions, is th

ded towards the end; not all might make her sacrifices. But, in the latitudinous perspective of Time where everything vanishes to the point of due proportion, she mus

ragically apart. She becomes then as a monument, set up on a high and lonely hill amongst the many of those hills in drowsy Devo

hile there were many in her lifetime who spurned Mary Throgmorton with tongue and with a glanc

n it and find the pleasure of its warmth. The respect of the world is won often by suffering and in the wild

ve erased her from their memory if they could. It was in the hush of voices they spok

third of her three sisters, could have had honesty enough in h

d can bend neither to the left nor to the right. They were too close to her to see her

her there upon the hills that overlooked the sea, they would have recognized then in her broad brow, in the straight direction of her eyes, the big, if not beautiful

air, neither quite golden nor quite brown, that clear, healthy skin, neither warmed with her blood nor i

orth bay and that wide open sea below and all the heathered stretches of the moors behind her. There,

less of mercy for her. Because it was in stone, man found her cold of touch and stood away. And yet again because it

e stirred, she had in her passion to defy them every one. Once stirred, herself could raise that monument to the b