Blogs and book

She remembered it to this day. She had been ever since fancying
she could detect the lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's
glances. In the attentive, in the casual--even in the grateful
glances--in the expression of the softest moods.
"Has she her soft moods, then?" I asked with interest.
Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. All
her mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorable
glance. The general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupy
a considerable place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne was
trying honestly to give me some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own
uneasiness as my curiosity. She was frowning in the effort as you see
sometimes a child do (what is delightful in women is that they so often
resemble intelligent children--I mean the crustiest, the sourest, the
most battered of them do--at times). She was frowning, I say, and I was
beginning to smile faintly at her when all at once she came out with
something totally unexpected.
"It was horribly merry," she said.


Pages:
248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272