Looking at her now as she stood awaiting her
uncle's arrival in the drawing-room of her "suite," the windows of
which faced the Bois, she expressed to the air and surroundings the
personality of a thoughtful, charming young woman,--no more. Her
black silk gown, cut simply in the prevailing mode of definitely
outlining the figure from throat to hips, and then springing out in
pliant folds of trailing drapery, had nothing remarkable about it
save its Parisian perfection of fit,--the pale "Gloire de France"
rose that rested lightly amongst the old lace at her neck, pinned,
yet looking as though it had dropped there merely out of a languid
desire to escape from further growing, was her only ornament. Her
hair, full of curious lights and shades running from brown to gold
and gold to brown again, in a rippling uncertain fashion, clustered
thickly over her brow and was caught back at the sides in a loose
twist after the style of the Greek vestals,--and her fine, small
white hands and taper fingers, so skilled in the use of the artist's
brush, looked too tiny and delicate to be of any service save to
receive the kisses of a lover's lips,--or to be raised, folded pure
and calm, in a child-like appeal to Heaven.
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