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Excerpt from The House of Hidden Treasure: A Novel
For Maurice Bertram it had no terrors, no associations, no memories that were not entirely delightful. Full of romance and poetry, it was to him an embodied fairy tale. Sweet and subtle fragrance pervaded it in his memory, faint odours of lavender and dried roses. There is no fragrance to match that of old roses; the fragrance of their bloom is coarse by comparison with that subtle, spiritual, pathetic scent. All the happiness his orphan childhood had known was associated with that house; he had dreamed of it by day and by night, longed for it, pictured it, until, when he stood a grown man before its heavy doorway and regarded its steep, low-brewed roof and leaning gable-end, he scarcely knew it again yet it was unchanged.
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