"
He had thrilled at the sound of her voice. It was the low, deliberate
voice of the woman of the crossroads, and, as before, he caught the
almost imperceptible accent. The red gleam from the blazing logs fell
upon her shining hair; it glistened like gold. She wore a simple
evening gown of white, softened over the shoulders and neck with a
fall of rare vallenciennes lace. There was no jewelry,--not even a
ring on her slender, tapering fingers. Oddly enough, now that he stood
beside her, she was not so tall as he had believed her to be the day
before. The crown of her silken head came but little above his
shoulder. As she had appeared to him among the trees he would have
sworn that she was but little below his own height, which was a
liberal six feet. He recalled a flash of wonder on that occasion; she
had seemed so much taller than the woman at the cross-roads that he
was almost convinced that she could not, after all, be the same
person. Now she was back to the height that he remembered, and he
marvelled once more.
Mrs. Collier, the hostess, was an elderly, heavy-featured woman,
decidedly over-dressed. Barnes knew her kind. One encounters her
everywhere: the otherwise intelligent woman who has no sense about her
clothes.
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