Mr. Lind met him at
the door. As they shook hands, Brand caught a glimpse of another figure
in the room--apparently that of a tall woman dressed all in cream-white,
with a bunch of scarlet geraniums in her bosom, and another in her
raven-black hair.
"Not the gay little adventuress, then?" was his instant and internal
comment. "Better contrived still. The inspired prophetess. Obviously
not the daughter of this man at all. Hired."
But when Natalie Lind came forward to receive him, he was more than
surprised; he was almost abashed. During a second or two of wonder and
involuntary admiration, he was startled out of his critical attitude
altogether. For this tall and striking figure was in reality that of a
young girl of eighteen or nineteen, who had the beautifully formed bust,
the slender waist, and the noble carriage that even young Hungarian
girls frequently have. Perhaps the face, with its intellectual forehead
and the proud and firmly cut mouth, was a trifle too calm and
self-reliant for a young girl: but all the softness of expression that
was wanted, all the gentle and gracious timidity that we associate with
maidenhood, lay in the large, and dark, and lustrous eyes.
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