Half-shyly she dwelt upon his personal appearance.--A fine head and
clever face, the nose astute, slightly Jewish in type, so she thought.
His eyes were disappointing, too thickly brown in colour, too opaque.
They told you nothing, were indeed curiously meaningless; and, though
well set under an ample brow, were wanting in depth and softness owing to
scantiness of eyelash. But his chin satisfied her demands. It was square,
forcible, slightly cleft; and his mouth, below the fly-away reddish
moustache, was frankly delightful.--Damaris flushed, smiling to herself
now as she recalled his smile. Whereupon the humiliation of that thrice
wretched running away took a sharper edge. For she realized, poor child,
how much--notwithstanding her proud little snubbing of him--she coveted
his good opinion, wished him to admire and to like her; wanted, even
while she disapproved his self-complacency and slightly doubted his
truthfulness, to have him carry with him a happy impression of her--carry
it with him to that enchanted far Eastern land in which all the poetry of
her childhood had its root.
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