And now let us have a
likeness of Ethel. She was seventeen years old; rather taller than the
majority of girls; her face somewhat grave and haughty, but on occasion
brightening with humour or beaming with kindliness and affection. Too
quick to detect affectation or insincerity in others, too impatient of
dulness or pomposity, she was more sarcastic now than she became when
after-years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looked out of her
bright eyes, and rose up armed and flashed scorn or denial when she
encountered flattery or meanness or imposture.
But those who had no cause to fear her keenness or her coldness admired
her beauty; nor could the famous Parisian model whom Clive said she
resembled be more perfect in form than this young lady. Her hair and
eyebrows were jet black, but her complexion was dazzlingly fair and her
cheeks as red as those belonging by right to a blonde. In her black hair
there was a slight natural ripple. Her eyes were grey; her mouth rather
large; her teeth were regular and white, her voice was low and sweet; and
her smile, when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as spring
sunshine; also her eyes could lighten and flash often, and sometimes,
though rarely, rain. As for her figure, the tall, slender form clad in a
simple white muslin robe in which her fair arms were enveloped, and which
was caught at her slim waist by a blue ribbon, let us make a respectful
bow to that fair image of youth, health, and modesty, and fancy it as
pretty as we will.
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