Scene: The Ball
I watched, quietly, with come on a sound. Rebecca was here, watching; her eyes feeling beyond the barrier of the wooden doors, into the east wing, scrutinising the shapeless dust of hers, the white and expensive material that has lost its elegance on the wrong owner.
The doors flung open, a white figure hurried bulge out after Clarice. Clutching the flounces of her dress with one hand, the other placed in the middle of her chest, she fidgeted excitedly, heaving, panting. Her saying flushed a shade of bump from what seemed like a mixture of the effect of heat, excitement and embarrassment. I winced. The sway of her dress with all(prenominal) step, the pee-peeup on her face and the dark locks of curled hair that bounced upon her bosom as she sauntered forward, hale themselves to resemble that of Rebecca’s, barely not a fair panorama at all; for my lady was much shapelier, much more elegant, much more stunning.
Memories of Rebecca, my lovely Rebecca, gripped and choked me with its long ordered fingers. They sprawled and groped their way up my throat, higher and tighter. I remember every detail of the night, the night when Mrs de Winter was the centre of attention, the belle of the ball.
“Danny, help me do up my hair,” she said. I did her smooth and silky hair in curls, just like Caroline de Winter.
“See how they shine,” I said, as I smoothed out the last lock to make sure there was not a strand out of place.
Rebecca’s face glowed as she finished applying a sporty layer of makeup. She stood up and twirled around in front of the mirror. “Oh, Danny, “Rebecca exclaimed, “how enthral do I sprightliness?” she beamed at my reflection in the mirror.
Her dark shiny curls, smooth yet sharp seventh cranial nerve features, a dress that would fit no one else but her so perfectly; she was such a beautiful creature.
“You look absolutely stunning,” I replied as I put on her lace gloves. “You would be the belle...If you want to get a generous essay, order it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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