In thinking afterward of the shock Priscilla gave him, Farwell was always
glad to remember that his first thought was for her, her danger, her
need.
"I declare!" he exclaimed. "I did not know you, Priscilla Glenn."
His tone had a new ring in it, a vibration of defence--the astonished
male on guard against the attack of a subtle force whose power he could
not estimate.
"And no wonder. I did not know myself when I first saw myself. Do you
know, Mr. Farwell, I never thought about my--my face, much, but it is
really a--very nice face, isn't it? As faces go, I mean?"
"Yes," Farwell returned, looking at her critically and speaking slowly.
"Yes, you are very--beautiful. I had not thought of it before, either."
"Drop me down, now, in the States, Mr. Farwell, and I fancy that with my
looks and my dancing I might--well, go! What do you think?"
She was preening herself before a small mirror and did not notice the
elderly man, who, under her fascination, was being transformed.
"You're a regular Frankenstein," he muttered, while the consciousness
of the blue eyes in the dusky skin, the long slenderness of her body,
and the hue of her strange hair grew upon him.
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