The firelight flickered
and danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept wildly past the
waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in which the heart of a strong man
could be tangled and lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: "Look
at me! Am I worthy of him?"
Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one
who sees some devilish, midnight revelry, and shrinks away from it
lest the sight should blast her. She covered her eyes with her hands
but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists and her hands were
jerked down from her face. She looked up into the eyes of a
beautiful tigress.
"Answer me--your yellow hair against mine--your child fingers against
my grip--are you equal with me?"
But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew small; her arms fell to
her side; she stepped back, with a rising pallor taking the place of
the red. For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one bare, before
her eyes, returned the stare of the mountain girl with equal scorn. A
mighty loathing filled up her veins in place of strength.
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