Sorrow had set its brand upon this
protesting face in deep, violet marks under the eyes, in lines which no
human power could erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the
hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history. For she had a new and
remarkable beauty which puzzled and astonished me,--a beauty in which
maternity had no place. The figure, gowned with an innate taste in
black, still kept the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the
shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was thrown. She
stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew that she had come to fight for
what was left her. I knew further that she was no mean antagonist.
"Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of
this--summons, Mr. Ritchie?" she asked. "You are a travelled person for
one so young. I might almost say," she added with an indifferent laugh,
"that there is some method and purpose in your travels."
"Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame," I replied; "I am here by the merest
chance."
Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took her seat on the oak
from which I had risen. I marvelled that this woman, with all her
self-possession, could be the same as she who had held her room,
cowering, these four days past. Admiration for her courage mingled with
my other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to begin.
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