" As I faltered out these words
in a low voice, the rosy tints of life gradually reappeared on her
cheeks, a sad smile, implying an obstinate unbelief in happiness,
played round her mouth, and she raised her eyes to the ceiling, as
though they listened to words which responded not to the ear, but to
the thoughts. Never was the change from life to death, from a dream to
reality, so rapid; on her countenance, now blooming with youth and
refreshed by rest, surprise, languor, delight, repose, joy and
melancholy, timidity and grace were all painted in quick succession.
Her radiance seemed to illumine the dark recess more than the light of
morning. There existed more languor, more revealings, more sympathy in
her looks and silence, than in millions of words. The human face speaks
a language to the eye, and in youth the countenance is an instrument of
which one look of passion sweeps the keys. It transmits from soul to
soul mysteries of mute communion, which cannot be translated into
words. My countenance, too, must have revealed what I felt to those
eyes which were bent so earnestly upon me.
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