He stared as if I were a stranger whose face drew, yet puzzled him. Then
he was attracted by my beauty, then for a moment dismayed, and then--why,
he was really so much in love that I--I--he gazed at me as if I were not
quite real; with reverence. His eyes mirrored my power; the wonder of the
new Me, the glory and the radiance of me shone in them. He worships me
and--well, of course nobody could help liking that.
He was just as he has always been, but somehow, here in the city, I
couldn't help finding him bigger, stronger, more bucolic. His clothes
looked coarse. His collar was low for the mode, his gloveless hands were
red. There was something almost clerical in his schoolmasterly garb, but
his bold dark eyes and short hair aggressively brushed to a standstill, as
he used to say, looked anything but ministerial. It was plain that he was
a man of sense and spirit, one to be proud of; plain that he was a
countryman, too.
I couldn't help seeing his thick shoes any more than I could his hurt face
when I was distant and his ardour the moment I grew kind; and I was so
ashamed--thinking of his looks and picking flaws, when three months ago I
was a country girl myself--that I know--I don't know what I should have
done, if Kitty hadn't returned.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126