It was a face of girlish,
saintly purity, of fairest loveliness--a face where innocence, poetry,
and passion all seemed to blend in one grand harmony. There was nothing
commonplace about it. One could not mistake it for a plebeian face;
"patrician" was written on every feature.
Lord Arleigh looked at her like one in a dream.
"If she had an aureole round her head, I should take her for an angel,"
he thought to himself, and stood watching her.
The same secret subtle harmony pervaded[4] every action; each new
attitude seemed to be the one that suited her best. If she raised her
arms, she looked like a statue. Her hands were white and delicate, as
though carved in ivory. He judged her to be about eighteen. But who was
she, and what had brought her there? He could have stood through the
long hours of the sunny day watching her, so completely had she charmed
him, fascinated his very senses.
"Love is fate!" How often had he said that to himself, smiling the
while? Now here his fate had come to him all unexpectedly--this most
fair face had found its way to the very depths of his heart and nestled
there.
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