...
The young lady sitting by the window turned her head and said--
"Come, mother. Even with us things change with years."
Her voice was deep, almost harsh, and yet caressing in its harshness.
She had a dark complexion, with red lips and a full figure. She gave the
impression of strong vitality. The old lady sighed.
"You are both young--you two. It is easy for you to hope. But I, too, am
not hopeless. Indeed, how could I be with a son like this."
I addressed Miss Haldin, asking her what authors she wished to read. She
directed upon me her grey eyes shaded by black eyelashes, and I
became aware, notwithstanding my years, how attractive physically
her personality could be to a man capable of appreciating in a woman
something else than the mere grace of femininity. Her glance was as
direct and trustful as that of a young man yet unspoiled by the world's
wise lessons. And it was intrepid, but in this intrepidity there
was nothing aggressive. A naive yet thoughtful assurance is a better
definition. She had reflected already (in Russia the young begin to
think early), but she had never known deception as yet because obviously
she had never yet fallen under the sway of passion. She was--to look at
her was enough--very capable of being roused by an idea or simply by
a person.
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