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  • Open Daily: 10am - 10pm
    Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm

    3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
    612-822-4611

Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm
3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611
M. or N. "Similia similibus curantur."

M. or N. "Similia similibus curantur."

Whyte-Melville, G. J.

Paperback

RomanceClassic FictionGeneral Fiction

Currently unavailable to order

ISBN13: 9798182729048
Publisher: Kristen Books
Pages: 312
Weight: 0.92
Height: 0.65 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English

S imilia similibus curantur by G. J. Whyte-Melville is a novel written during the late19th century. The story opens with an atmospheric scene on a stormy night in Calais, where a distraught young man namedMr. Bruce wanders the sands, consumed with grief and worry for his beloved, Nina, who is in a precarious condition after childbirth. The narrative captures his inner turmoil and desperation, setting the stage for a tale that delves into love, societal expectations, and the resulting complications from their choices. The beginning of the novel paints a vivid picture of Mr. Bruce's emotional state as he reflects on his relationshipwith Nina, marked by youthful passion and the challenges they face regarding their future. The tension escalates as he waits anxiously for news of Nina's wellbeing and the aftermath of her delivery. As he grapples with fears of losing her, the arrival of a French doctor provides a glimmer of hope, informing him of Nina's recovery. This portion of the book effectively introduces the main characters and their conflicting emotions, while foreshadowing the complications that will arise from their decisions against societal norms.I t is more than twenty years ago, and yet how vividly it all comes back to him to-night! The sun has gone down in streaks of orange and crimson over the old oaks that crown the deer-park sloping upward to the rear of Ecclesfield Manor. Mr. Bruce walks across a darkened room to throw the window open for a gasp of fresh evening air, laden with the perfume of pinks, carnations, and moss-roses in the garden below. Her garden! Is it possible? Something in the action reminds him of that bright, hopeful morning at Calais. Something in the scent of the flowers steals to his brain, half torpid and benumbed; his heart contracts with an agony of physical suffering. My darling! my darling! he murmurs, shall I never see you tying those flowers again? and turning from the window, he falls on his knees by the bedside with a passionate burst of weeping that, like blood-letting to the body, restores the unwelcome faculty of consciousness to his mind. When he raises his head again he knows well enough that the one great misfortune has ar-

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