Daisy Miller Quotes

I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do.

They are hopelessly vulgar. Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough.

The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne's impulse to go straightway to see her.

My father ain't in Europe; my father's in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father's in Schenectady.

Am I grave?', he asked. 'I had an idea I was grinning from ear to ear.' 'You look as if you were taking me to a funeral. If that's a grin, your ears are very near together.

The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma

She was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed towards conversation.

if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors.

In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That is not the deepest thing; there is something deeper.

Daisy Miller dies of Roman fever. Nana Coupeau dies of smallpox. Ophelia dies by drowning herself. Tess Durbeyfield dies by execution. Emma Bovary dies by swallowing arsenic. Anna Karenina dies by throwing herself under a train. I did not die.

Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn't exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother—" "Gracious!

Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a question for the metaphysicians.

She seemed to him, in all this, an extraordinary mixture of innocence and crudity.

After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her, and they intimated that they desired to express observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behaviour was not representative - was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned towards her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy's defiance came from the consciousness of innocence or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding oneself to a belief in Daisy's "innocence" came to see Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late.

American girls are the best girls,” he said cheerfully to his young companion.

But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence.

He found her that evening in the garden, wandering about in the warm starlight like an indolent sylph, and swinging to and fro the largest fan he had ever beheld. It was ten o'clock.

I was still under the illusion that, barring what I'd read in books, inferred from rumors, and overheard in bawdy talk all over, no one my age had ever wanted to be both man and woman-with men and women.

She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. 'I have always had,' she said, 'a great deal of gentlemen's society.

Lots of talk lately about the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL that seems to be exclusively masculine. And how many of the characters in the GENIUS BOOKS are likable? Is Holden Caulfield likable? Is Meursault in The Stranger? Is Henry Miller? Is any character in any of these system novels particularly likable? Aren’t they usually loathsome but human, etc., loathsome and neurotic and obsessed? In my memory, all the characters in Jonathan Franzen are total douchebags (I know, I know, I’m not supposed to use that, feminine imagery, whatever, but it is SO satisfying to say and think). How about female characters in the genius books? Was Madame Bovary likable? Was Anna Karenina? Is Daisy Buchanan likable? Is Daisy Miller? Is it the specific way in which supposed readers HATE unlikable female characters (who are too depressed, too crazy, too vain, too self-involved, too bored, too boring), that mirrors the specific way in which people HATE unlikable girls and women for the same qualities? We do not allow, really, the notion of the antiheroine, as penned by women, because we confuse the autobiographical, and we pass judgment on the female author for her terrible self-involved and indulgent life. We do not hate Scott Fitzgerald in “The Crack-Up” or Georges Bataille in Guilty for being drunken and totally wading in their own pathos, but Jean Rhys is too much of a victim.

She stood there looking, consciously and rather seriously, at Mr. Ransom; a smile of exceeding faintness played about her lips—it was just perceptible enough to light up the native gravity of her face. It might have been likened to a thin ray of moonlight resting upon the wall of a prison.

I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There's something or other every day. There's not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation.

Chi sa ballare alla persiana?” domando. Tutte si voltano a guardare Sanaz. Lei si schermisce, fa di no con la tessta. Cominciamo ad insistere, a incoraggiarla, formiamo un cerchio intorno a lei. Quando inizia a ballare, piuttosto a disagio, battiamo le mani e ci mettiamo a canticchiare. Nassrin ci chiede di fare più piano. Sanaz riprende, quasi vergognandosi, a piccoli passi, muovendo il bacino con grazia sensuale. Continuiamo a ridere e a scherzare, e lei si fa più ardita; muove la testa a destra e sinistra, e ogni parte del suo corpo vibra; balla anche con le dita e le mani. Sul suo volto compare un'espressione particolare, spavalda, ammicante, che attrae, cattura, e al tempo stesso sfugge e si nasconde. Appena smette di ballare, tuttavia, il suo potere svanisce. Esistono varie forme di seduzione, ma quella che emana dalle danze tradizionali persiane è unica, una miscela di impudenza e sottigliezza di cui non mi pare esistano eguali nel mondo occidentale. Ho visto donne di ogni estrazione sociale assumere lo stesso sguardo di Sanaz, sornione, seducente e l'ho ritrovato anni dopo sul viso di Leyly, una mia amica molto sofisticata che aveva studiato in Francia, vedendola ballare al ritmo di una musica piena di parole come naz e eshveh e kereshmeh, che potremmo tradurre con “malizia”, “provocazione”, “civetteria”, senza però riuscire a rendere l'idea. QUesto tipo di seduzione è al tempo stesso elusiva, vigorosa e tangibile. Il corpo si contorce, ruota su se stesso, si annoda e si snoda. Le mani si aprono e si chiudono, i fianchi sembrano avvitarsi e poi sciogliersi. Ed è tutto calcolato: ogni passo ha il suo effetto, e così il successivo. È un ballo che seduce in un modo che Daisy Miller non si sognava neanche. È sfacciato, ma tutt'altro che arrendevole. Ed è tutto nei gesti di Sanaz. La veste nera e il velo - che ne incorniciano il volto scavato, gli occhi grandi e il corpo snello e fragile - conferiscono uno strano fascino ai suoi movimenti. Con ogni mossa, Sanaz sembra liberarsene: la vesta diventa sempre più leggera, e aggiunge mistero all'enigma della danza.

There is nothing, though, in “An International Episode” or “Daisy Miller,” fine as they are, that prepares us for the subtle psychological realism of James’s depictions of the elusiveness of self-knowledge and the terrors of confronting one’s concealed motivations in the three premier stories of this volume, “The Aspern Papers,” “The Turn of the Screw,” and “The Beast in the Jungle.” Beginning in the 1880s with Portrait of a Lady (1881), which literary historians tend to think of as James’s breakthrough novel, the fate of Americans in Europe and the interaction between European sophistication and American innocence became more a matter of the heart and psyche than one of manners, social relations, and cultural differences.

There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud-curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o'clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it occurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance.

So let’s get this straight right now. Have you ever seen a teen movie or TV show with a big, raging party scene? Get that out of your mind. This is high school, not college, and it’s Texas. In Texas, we do bonfires on the ranch…not mansions and hotel rooms. We do daisy dukes, backward baseball caps and faded blue jeans…not sparkling cocktail dresses or fancy button ups. I love Texas. I love the laid-back, country style of my hometown and my people.

Suggested Reading Nuha al-Radi, Baghdad Diaries Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin Jane Austen, Emma, Mansfield Park, and Pride and Prejudice Saul Bellow, The Dean’s December and More Die of Heartbreak Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Joseph Conrad, Under Western Eyes Henry Fielding, Shamela and Tom Jones Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank Henry James, The Ambassadors, Daisy Miller, and Washington Square Franz Kafka, In the Penal Colony and The Trial Katherine Kressman Taylor, Address Unknown Herman Melville, The Confidence Man Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita, Invitation to a Beheading, and Pnin Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs Iraj Pezeshkzad, My Uncle Napoleon Diane Ravitch, The Language Police Julie Salamon, The Net of Dreams Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis Scheherazade, A Thousand and One Nights F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby W. G. Sebald, The Emigrants Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries Joseph Skvorecky, The Engineer of Human Souls Muriel Spark, Loitering with Intent and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie Italo Svevo, Confessions of Zeno Peter Taylor, A Summons to Memphis Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Anne Tyler, Back When We Were Grownups and St. Maybe Mario Vargas Llosa, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter Reading

It was a real treat when he'd read me Daisy Miller out loud. But we'd reached the point in our relationship when, in a straight choice between him and Henry James, I'd have taken Henry James any day even if Henry James were dead and not much of a one for the girls when living, either.

I’ll interfere with his concentration,” Daisy muttered, mostly to herself, as she worked between the stove and the sink. “Thump him up right ‘longside the head with my skillet—” Emma nearly choked on her pancake. “Honestly, Daisy,” she said, suppressing a smile, “a person would never know you were a good Christian woman by the way you talk. What would Reverend Hess say if he heard you going on like that?” “I reckon he’d say I’s an old lady and I’s gotta be let alone.

Mr. Fairfax is sleeping, and he won’t be wanting any breakfast. You might check on him later in the morning, though.” “I’ll check on him,” Daisy said. “Give him a good wallop with my broom handle, that’s what.” Emma

I hear Chloe is keeping a man in the house,” he said stiffly. “Now, Emma, you know I don’t mind about Big John Lenahan stopping by every now and again, but I draw the line—” “It isn’t your house, Fulton,” Emma put in reasonably. Fulton was so startled at the interruption that he went red at the ears. “Be that as it may, I don’t care for the idea of my fiancée sleeping under the same roof with somebody who’d stoop to drinking in the Yellow Belly Saloon.” Emma went to the door and began picking up the returned books. She was careful to hide her smile. “I’m not your fiancée, Fulton,” she reminded him sweetly. “Who is he? What’s his name?” Some instinct made Emma reticent about Steven’s identity. “Just a drifter,” she said, carrying the books to her desk and beginning to sort through them. “He’ll be gone soon.” “Well, I certainly hope so.” Emma changed the subject. “Daisy wanted to know if you planned on coming to supper tonight.” “You know I wouldn’t go out on a Tuesday.” Emma sighed, staring off into the distance. He’d gone out on a Monday, but she didn’t want to take the trouble to point that out. “Yes,” she said, and she was thinking of the man she’d washed and read to the night before. She wondered if he was awake, drinking the coffee Emma had left for him, though it would be stone-cold by now, or swearing because no one would give him back his .45. “What are you smiling about?” Fulton demanded. Emma went right on sorting books. “Nothing,” she lied. “Nothing at all.

What’s the matter, chile? The debil chasin’ after you?” Emma paused to take a deep breath and recover her dignity. “Yes,” she said. “Do you know where Chloe put Mr. Fair—Steven’s pistol?” “She done locked it up in her desk drawer with the derringer. Why? You gonna give it back to him?” Emma nodded, then proceeded toward the hallway. “I most certainly am.” “Why you wanna do that?” Daisy fussed, following her out of the kitchen and into Chloe’s study. Finding the key in its customary hiding place, Emma unlocked Chloe’s desk and lifted the formidable Colt .45 gingerly from its depths. “There’s always the hope that he’ll shoot himself,” she said cheerfully. Daisy shrank back against the doorway. “Miss Emma, you put that thing down right now, or I’s gonna take you over my knee and paddle you!” Emma raised the gun and sited in on a book shelf across the room. She wondered what it would be like to fire the weapon. In the next instant she found out, for the gun went off with no intentional help from Emma, and several of Chloe’s leatherbound books exploded into a single smoldering tangle of paper. Daisy screamed and so did Emma, who dropped the gun in horror only to have it fire again, this time splintering the leg of Big John’s favorite chair. “Don’t you dare touch that thing again!” Daisy shrieked, when Emma bent to retrieve it. Emma left the pistol lying on the rug and straightened up again, one hand pressed to her mouth in shock. The two women stood in their places for a long time, afraid to move. Emma, for her part, was busy imagining all the dreadful things that could have happened. She was amazed to see Steven stumble into the room, fully dressed except for his boots, drenched in sweat from the effort of making his way down the stairs in a hurry. The expression in his eyes was wild and alert, almost predatory. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he rasped. Emma pointed to the pistol as though it were a snake coiled to strike. “It went off—twice.” Steven was supporting himself by grasping the edge of Chloe’s desk. “Pick it up very carefully and hand it to me,” he said. Emma bit her lower lip, remembering what had happened when she’d handled the gun before. “You can do it,” Steven urged. “Just make sure you don’t touch the hammer or the trigger.” Emma crouched and picked it up cautiously. The barrel was hot against her palm. “Here,” Steven said, holding out his hand. Emma surrendered the gun, and leaning back against the desk, Steven spun the chamber expertly, dropping the four remaining bullets into his palm. He gave a ragged sigh, then just stood there, cradling the pistol in his hands like a kitten or a puppy. “I was going to bring it to you,” Emma confessed in a small voice. “She was hopin’ you’d blow your brains out with it,” Daisy muttered, before she turned and went back to the kitchen. Steven

Emma set the tray across his lap, he made no move to pick up his spoon or fork. “It’s been a long day,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure I want to make the effort to eat.” She sank into the chair beside the bed. “But you must eat,” she replied. “You’ll never get your strength back if you don’t.” Steven lifted one shoulder in a dispirited shrug and looked away. After drawing a deep breath and letting it out again, Emma reached for his fork, stabbed a piece of Daisy’s meat pie, with its thick, flaky crust, and raised it to Steven’s lips. He smiled wanly and allowed her to feed him. In fact, it seemed to Emma that he was enjoying this particular moment of incapacity. The experience was oddly sensual for Emma; she found herself getting lost in the graceful mechanics of it. When Steven grasped her hand, very gently, and lightly kissed her palm, the fork slipped from her fingers and clattered to the tray. Her breasts swelled as she drew in a quick, fevered breath. Steven trailed his lips over the delicate flesh on the inner side of her forearm until he reached her elbow. When his tongue touched her at the crux, the pleasure was so swift and so keen that she flinched and gave a soft moan. His eyes locked with hers and he told her, without speaking aloud, that there were other places on her body he wanted to kiss. Places he fully intended to explore and master. Emma took hold of the tray with a hasty, awkward movement and bolted to her feet, feeling hot and achy all over. “Well,” she said with a brightness that was entirely false, “if you’re not hungry any longer…” “I didn’t say that, Miss Emma,” he interrupted, his voice as rough as gravel. “It’s just that it isn’t food I’m hungry for.” Only her fierce grasp on the sides of the tray kept Emma from dropping it to the floor—plate, cup, leftover food, and all. “What a scandalous remark!” Steven smiled and stretched, wincing a little at the resultant pain. “I can think of plenty of ‘scandalous’ remarks,” he said, “if you’d like to hear more.” Emma was painfully conscious of the pulse at the inside of her elbow, where Steven had kissed her. A number of other fragile points, such as the backs of her knees and the arches of her feet, tingled in belated response. “Good night, Mr. Fairfax,” she said, with feigned dignity. And then she turned and walked out of the room.

You done trifled with that girl, ain’t you?” Steven swallowed a bite of sausage before answering. “In a manner of speaking,” he confessed, remembering the warm softness of Emma’s breasts, and the way their peaks had hardened for him like sweet candy. Daisy’s hardworking hands were resting on her generous hips. “There gonna be a baby?” Steven shook his head. Things hadn’t gone quite that far; no, Emma’s babies would probably look like that banker Callie had told him about, not him, and the realization filled him with sadness. “No chance of that, Daisy, so you don’t need to worry.” “Well, I is worried,” Daisy insisted. “Miss Emma ain’t herself. She’s off her food, she don’t sleep at night. Not only that, she don’t argue back with me or Chloe when we bosses her around. Somethin’s wrong.” Steven’s appetite was gone, and he laid down his fork. “She’ll be all right,” he promised gently, but he wasn’t at all sure of that.

Thanks for everything, Daisy,” he said, and as he passed the big woman, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You’re the best cook north of New Orleans.” She beamed at the compliment, then made herself glower. “You just get on out of here and stop takin’ up my time, you fancy-talkin’ man!” Steven

You can’t work for Big John with your ribs bound!” she protested, when she’d recovered somewhat. “How will you ride?” “I’m glad you’re concerned about my well-being,” Steven replied in a voice meant to carry beyond the fence, where two women were strolling by, pretending not to notice that Emma Chalmers was entertaining the much-talked-about stranger. “I wish you’d just go away and leave me alone!” Emma reached for the screened door, and the hinges squeaked loudly as she wrenched it open. Steven grinned broadly. “Like I said before, Miss Emma—you’re going to be seeing a lot of me from now on. In fact, I mean to come calling again as soon as I can.” One of the curtains moved behind Steven, and Emma wondered who was eavesdropping—Chloe or Daisy. Emma’s desperation drove her to lie. “That would not be proper, I’m afraid. You see, I plan to become engaged to Mr. Whitney very soon.” Steven caught hold of her hand and dragged it to his mouth, where he kissed the knuckles. It was as though she hadn’t spoken. “Good night, Miss Emma,” he said fondly. “Sweet dreams.” There

Fasten my buttons, please,” she said, turning her back to Daisy. “I’ll fasten your buttons, all right,” Daisy muttered, but she couldn’t hide her amusement at Emma’s good mood. “You just see that young cowboy don’t unfasten ’em again.” Emma stiffened. “Daisy! How could you say such a thing?” “I wasn’t always old an’ fat,” Daisy chortled. “No, siree, I was young once, just like you. Now, you mind your manners and behave like a lady, or I’ll paddle your bottom.” “Fiddlefaddle,” Emma said, but she was smiling when she whirled around to face Daisy, her skirts swishing as she moved. “How do I look?” “Like a tiger lily,” Daisy answered fondly, gathering her apron into her hands. “Lord, but you’re a beauty, chile—no wonder some young fella’s always tryin’ to lead you down the primrose path!” Emma’s smile faded as she wondered how on earth she would resist Steven Fairfax if he got her alone and kissed her. But Daisy laughed at her expression and patted her briskly on the cheek. “Don’t look so fretted up, now—the fella what succeeds, I reckon he’ll be the right one.” To

What you gonna do when Mr. Fulton Whitney hears about this debilment?” “It isn’t devilment,” Emma protested, bending close to the little mirror beside the door and pinching her cheeks to make them pink. “It’s a picnic and nothing more—the whole thing is perfectly innocent.” Daisy chortled, her great bulk quivering with amusement. “I declare that’s what Eve said to Adam. ‘The whole thing is perfectly innocent.’” Before

Steven grinned as though he could see right through her. He was finely dressed, but she could see the bulge of his .45 beneath his suitcoat. “Hello, Miss Emma,” he said, taking off his new beaver hat. “Mr. Fairfax,” Emma replied, stepping back to admit him. There in the shadowed light of the entryway, he brought a very small box from the pocket of his vest and held it out. “This is for you.” Emma fairly lunged for the package, before remembering it wasn’t polite to go grasping at things in other people’s hands. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. Steven’s eyes glittered with silent laughter. “But I did,” he reasoned. “That’s true,” Emma replied, snatching it from his fingers and ripping off the paper. The package contained a tiny bottle of real French perfume, and Emma’s eyes went round at the sight of it. Uncorking the little crystal lid, she held the splendid stuff to her nose and sniffed. Surely heaven didn’t smell any better. “Thank you,” she breathed, amazed that a cowboy could give such an elegant, costly gift. Even Fulton, with all his money, had never presented her with anything so dazzlingly extravagant. Steven smiled. “You’re welcome, Miss Emma. Now, are we going on that picnic or not?” Emma led the way back through the house. “Daisy’s fixed us a grand basket.” “We’ll have plenty to eat then, darlin’, because I just picked up a full meal from the hotel.” Emma turned and looked at him in surprise. “But the lady always provides the food,” she said. “That doesn’t seem quite fair, since it was the gentleman who did the asking,” Steven replied in a mischievous whisper. Daisy

Daisy was still lingering in the kitchen when they arrived, and when she saw Steven she shook a wooden spoon at him. “I raised this chile to be a good girl,” she warned. “Don’t you go messin’ with her, hear?” The beginnings of a grin quirked Steven’s lips, but he didn’t quite give in to it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Emma

It’s plain that Daisy never learned not to trust a flattering rogue,” she remarked. Steven closed his hands around Emma’s waist and lifted her none-too-gently onto the leather seat of the rig. “If that’s what you think of me,” he demanded, pushing his hat to the back of his head to look up at her, “what are you doing going on a picnic with me?” Emma took great delight in prickling his overblown pride. “You know very well what I’m doing,” she answered in the same haughty tone she’d used on the school grounds as a girl, when the other children had tormented her about Chloe’s method of earning a livelihood. “I’m honoring my end of our agreement. I’ll still detest you when this picnic is over, and you’ll ride out of this town forever, just as you promised.” His grin was downright maddening. “Or,” he retorted, “you’ll end up asking me to stay. In fact, I expect you’ll ask real nice, Miss Emma.” He took a few moments to watch the color flood her face, laughed again, and rounded the buggy to climb up in the seat beside her and take the reins.

The trees harbored a clearing where a multitude of white daisies with centers as yellow as pirate’s doubloons rippled in the breeze. Looking at them, Emma forgot her troubles. “There must be one for every angel in heaven,” she breathed. Steven, who had been spreading the picnic blanket on the ground, came to stand behind her. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, and he bent to plant the lightest of kisses on her nape. “Today they all belong to just one angel—you.” She turned to look up at him, and his arms slipped naturally around her waist. He’d tossed his hat onto the picnic blanket, but the imprint of the band showed in his glossy brown hair, and Emma couldn’t resist touching it with the fingers of one hand. “Why did you have to go and get yourself blown up in Whitneyville?” she asked softly. “Life was so simple before I met you—I knew what I thought about everything.” A trace of a smile touched his lips. “And now?” “I’m confused, Steven. I’ve spent all my time with one man over the last few months and now here I am, standing in an ocean of daisies with quite another.” He brushed her mouth with his own. “If it helps, Miss Emma, I’m as muddled up as you are. A few weeks ago I just wanted to keep on moving. Now it’s like I’ve got lead in my boots.” Emma

Emma knew what was going to happen if she didn’t break away, and she used every shred of her willpower to turn from Steven and run through the daisies, her arms outspread. She’d gone only a few yards when she stumbled over something and went sprawling. She was laughing when she rolled over and started to sit up, and her plump breasts strained against her bodice. Before she could begin the arduous process of untangling herself from her skirts and struggling back to her feet, Steven was kneeling beside her on the ground. He reached out slowly to touch her braid. “God in heaven, but you’re beautiful,” he rasped, and it was as though he begrudged the words. “Who are you, Emma? Where did you come from?” She

Steven laid Emma gently on the carpet of daisies to take the little flagon from her hand. She watched, half bewitched, as he removed the stopper and touched it ever so lightly to the pulse point at the base of her throat. The lush woodsy scent rose to her nostrils, and Emma closed her eyes to savor this new pleasure. Steven stretched out beside Emma and kissed the place he had just perfumed, one hand resting brazenly on her bare breast. She swallowed a moan, for there was still some vestige of pride held prisoner in a dark part of her heart. The perfume touched the sensitive place beneath her right ear then, and as before, Steven followed the scent with his lips. Emma

Steven raised himself on an elbow, plucked a daisy, and put it through Emma’s loose braid. He continued until a trail of white flowers paraded from her scalp to the place beneath her breast where her hair made a coppery fan. His

If I wanted a plaything, Miss Emma,” he said hoarsely, “I’d go over to the Stardust and lay my money on the bar.” Emma scrambled to her feet and began pulling on her petticoats, her back turned to Steven. “Daisy always says men don’t buy the cow when they can get the milk for free,” she confided, and a little sob followed the words out of her throat. Steven gripped her arm and turned her to face him. He was wearing his trousers but nothing else, and Emma’s fingers ached to spread themselves over his chest. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are with your hair all tumbled and filled with daisies?” “You’re deliberately changing the subject!” Emma accused, as it began to dawn on her what she’d done, what she’d sacrificed. “All right,” Steven barked, “I’ll marry you as soon as we get back to Whitneyville!” “Well, that’s damn generous of you, considering that you just ruined me for any other man!” Emma shouted as the librarian chased the tigress back into her cage. She limped around in a circle in that ocean of daisies, searching in vain for her shoes. Finally, Steven stopped her restless prowling by holding them aloft. “Tell me to leave, Emma,” he said, when she flung herself at him, grabbing for her shoes. “That was our deal, remember?” Emma stopped the struggle and stared at him. As furious as she was with this man, as used as she felt, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words that would end her torment and perhaps allow her to salvage something of her dreams. He took her chin in his hand and held it, leaving her nowhere to look but directly into his eyes. “Say it,” he ordered.

Steven didn’t speak again, didn’t try to erase what she was feeling. Instead, he found a comb in her handbag, knelt behind her, and gently began working the tangles out of her hair. “Maybe the women of Whitneyville are right about me,” she muttered in genuine despair, and daisy petals fell like rain around her as Steven continued to comb her hair. “They might be right about some things,” Steven answered gently. “But they’re dead wrong about you.” There was something soothing in the feel of his hands in her hair, even though the pulling of the comb hurt now and then.

If you marry the wrong man,” Steven warned, in a voice all the more ominous because of its quietness, “you’ll regret it into your old age. You’ll never pass a day—or a night—without remembering how it was when we made love in a field of daisies, and wishing to God it could be that way with him. But it won’t be, Emma—no matter how hard you wish.” She

What is that?” Emma asked, as Lucy’s sobs began to subside a little. “Laudanum,” Steven answered. He got Lucy to her feet and helped her as far as the doorway, where a maid was waiting to collect her mistress. “Does she take a lot of that?” Emma asked, looking at the bottle distastefully. Steven sighed and set it aside. “She’s been using it ever since I’ve known her,” he said, screwing the lid back onto the bottle. “Obviously, being married to my brother is no field of daisies.” His