She had a long,
sure swimming stroke that could carry her again her length, rode with
the fine fluid movement of a young body at one with her mount, and
because of her five hours a week at gymnasium excelled in the rather
uncommon sport of handball.
She no longer wore her hair in its great avalanche of curls down her
back; they were caught in now with an amber barrette. Nights Lilly loved
to brush them out until they flared to a dust of gold about her head.
There was no light too dull for this hair to catch. It sprang out in
radiance against any background.
"When you sing Marguerite, Zoe, you won't need a wig."
"Ah, but when I sing Electra--Thais--the real me--no namby-pamby
Marguerite--no pearls--that's how I feel about Thais--as if she were a
great opal full of fire. Hair," flopping her head backward with a bounce
of curls, "is hot--it restricts. These curls--they are all hot and
crawly around my neck, holding me."
"Poor Harry! You remember how he used to love to take you out walking to
show off your curls?"
"Lilly, is Mrs. Schum going to get well?"
"I don't know. It frightens me.
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