Her face had turned grave and pitiful.
'Oh! I forgot,' she said. 'I wish I had not run away from you now.'
'You may run where you like for what I care,' I said. But the words
were very shaky, and I had no sooner said them than I wished them
back. She made no reply for some time, and I sat plucking the
wild-flowers near my hands, and gazing again across the sea. At last
she said,
'Would you like to come in our garden? It's such a nice garden.'
I could resist her no longer. That voice would have drawn me had she
spoken in the language of the Toltecs or the lost Zamzummin. To
describe it would of course be impossible. The novelty of her accent,
the way in which she gave the 'h' in 'which,' 'what,' and 'when,' the
Welsh rhythm of her intonation, were as bewitching to me as the
_timbre_ of her voice. And let me say here, once for all, that when I
sat down to write this narrative, I determined to give the English
reader some idea of the way in which, whenever her emotions were
deeply touched, her talk would run into soft Welsh diminutives; but I
soon abandoned the attempt in despair.
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