A fantasy novel by George MacDonald

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A FAERIE ROMANCE.                        71
Scarcely had the last sounds floated away from the hearing of my own ears, when I heard instead a low delicious laugh near me. It was not the laugh of one who would not be heard, but the laugh of one who has just received something long and patiently desired—a laugh that ends in a low musical moan. I started, and, turning sideways, saw a dim white figure seated beside an intertwining thicket of smaller trees and underwood.
" It is my white lady!" I said, and flung myself on the ground beside her; striving, through the gather­ing darkness, to get a glimpse of the form which had broken its marble prison at my call.
" It is your white lady," said the sweetest voice, in reply, sending a thrill of speechless delight through a heart which all the love charms of the preceding day and evening had been tempering for this culmi­nating hour. Yet, if I would have confessed it, there was something either in the sound of the voice, although it seemed sweetness itself, or else in this yielding which awaited no gradation of gentle ap­proaches, that did not vibrate harmoniously with the beat of my inward music. And likewise, when, taking her hand in mine, I drew closer to her, look­ing for the beauty of her face, which, indeed, I found
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