But her smile had nothing to do with anything the prospect yielded her.
Its beauties were undeniable; she had admitted them to herself many
times. But she knew them with that intimacy which robs things of their
first absorbing charm. The wide-spreading maple trees, which so
softened down the cold beauty of the large stone-fronted residences
lining the avenue, were always a source of soothing influence in the
excited delight of a visit to this busy and flourishing city. Then the
vista of lofty hills beyond the far limits of the town, with their
purpling tints, their broken facets, their dimly defined woodland
belts, they made such a wonderful backing to the civilized foreground.
Nan Tristram loved the place. For her, full of the dreams of youth,
Calthorpe was the hub of all that suggested life and gaiety. It was
the one city she knew. It was the holiday resort of the girl born and
bred to the arduous, and sometimes monotonous life of the plains.
But it was, in reality, a place of even greater significance.
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