She has
arms a trifle long even for such height as hers; fingers very long,
too, with red-pink nails trimmed to a point. She looks out slantwise,
conscious of her beauty, and perhaps of certain other things. Fire
under that ice, I conjecture--red corpuscles rampant behind that meek
white mask of hers. "_Forsitan in hoc anno pulcherrima debutantium_"
is the verdict of a contemporary journal. For "_forsitan_" read
"_certe_." No slur, that, on the rest of the bevy.
Very much as Johannes had seen her did she appear now to the cits,
as the cabriolet swung past them. Paramount there, she was still more
paramount here. Yet this Geoffrey was not ill-looking. In the secret
journal of Mary Jane, serving-wench in the palace of Geoffrey's father
(who gat his barony by beer) note is made of his "lovely blue eyes;
complexion like a blush rose; hands like a girl's; lips like a girl's
again; yellow curls close cropped; and for moustachio (so young is he
yet) such a shadow as amber might cast on water."
Here, had I my will, I would limn you Mary Jane herself, that parched
nymph. Time urges, though. The cabrioleteer thrashes his horse (me
with it) to a canter, and plunges into Soho. Some wagon athwart the
path gives pause. Angelica, looking about her, bites lip.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121