Sometimes she was slender and elf-like, a chic and clinging
creature. Again she was tall and stately, like the women of the
romances. Again she was buxom and blooming, one whose hand you would
take instead of offering an arm. She had been an elusive,
ever-changing creature, but now that I had looked into those grave,
gray eyes, I fixed the form of my picture, and fixed its colors and
fired them in to last for all my time.
Now she is just the woman that every woman ought to be. Her hair is
soft brown and sweeps back from a low white forehead. She has tried to
make it straight and simple, as every woman should, but the angels seem
to have curled it here and mussed it there, so that all her care cannot
hide its wanton waves. Her face is full of life and health, so open,
so candid, that there you read her heart, and you know that it is as
good as she is fair.
She stood before me in a sombre gown, almost ugly in its gray color and
severe lines, but to me she was a quaint figure such as might have
stepped out of the old world and the old time when men lived with a
vengeance, and godliness and ugliness went arm in arm, for Satan had
preempted the beautiful.
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