She was a buxom girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed.
"Won't you come in? Mother will be here in a minute."
Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle happened;
one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart, and take more courage
than the noisy, excited passages in life. Antonia came in and stood before
me; a stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little
grizzled. It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after
long years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this
woman had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously
at me were--simply Antonia's eyes. I had seen no others like them since I
looked into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of human
faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her
identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigor of her personality,
battered but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky,
breathy voice I remembered so well.
"My husband's not at home, sir. Can I do anything?"
"Don't you remember me, Antonia? Have I changed so much?"
She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look
redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to
grow broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands.
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