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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 439 pages of information about Tess of the d'Urbervilles.

The historic interest of her family—­that masterful line of d’Urbervilles—­whom he had despised as a spent force, touched his sentiments now.  Why had he not known the difference between the political value and the imaginative value of these things?  In the latter aspect her d’Urberville descent was a fact of great dimensions; worthless to economics, it was a most useful ingredient to the dreamer, to the moralizer on declines and falls.  It was a fact that would soon be forgotten—­that bit of distinction in poor Tess’s blood and name, and oblivion would fall upon her hereditary link with the marble monuments and leaded skeletons at Kingsbere.  So does Time ruthlessly destroy his own romances.  In recalling her face again and again, he thought now that he could see therein a flash of the dignity which must have graced her grand-dames; and the vision sent that aura through his veins which he had formerly felt, and which left behind it a sense of sickness.

Despite her not-inviolate past, what still abode in such a woman as Tess outvalued the freshness of her fellows.  Was not the gleaning of the grapes of Ephraim better than the vintage of Abiezer?

So spoke love renascent, preparing the way for Tess’s devoted outpouring, which was then just being forwarded to him by his father; though owing to his distance inland it was to be a long time in reaching him.

Meanwhile the writer’s expectation that Angel would come in response to the entreaty was alternately great and small.  What lessened it was that the facts of her life which had led to the parting had not changed—­could never change; and that, if her presence had not attenuated them, her absence could not.  Nevertheless she addressed her mind to the tender question of what she could do to please him best if he should arrive.  Sighs were expended on the wish that she had taken more notice of the tunes he played on his harp, that she had inquired more curiously of him which were his favourite ballads among those the country-girls sang.  She indirectly inquired of Amby Seedling, who had followed Izz from Talbothays, and by chance Amby remembered that, amongst the snatches of melody in which they had indulged at the dairyman’s, to induce the cows to let down their milk, Clare had seemed to like “Cupid’s Gardens”, “I have parks, I have hounds”, and “The break o’ the day”; and had seemed not to care for “The Tailor’s Breeches” and “Such a beauty I did grow”, excellent ditties as they were.

To perfect the ballads was now her whimsical desire.  She practised them privately at odd moments, especially “The break o’ the day”: 

   Arise, arise, arise! 
   And pick your love a posy,
   All o’ the sweetest flowers
   That in the garden grow. 
   The turtle doves and sma’ birds
   In every bough a-building,
   So early in the May-time
   At the break o’ the day!

It would have melted the heart of a stone to hear her singing these ditties whenever she worked apart from the rest of the girls in this cold dry time; the tears running down her cheeks all the while at the thought that perhaps he would not, after all, come to hear her, and the simple silly words of the songs resounding in painful mockery of the aching heart of the singer.

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