She was of
the benignant Roman-nosed Eastern type, daughter of generations of
philanthropists and workers in the public eye for the public good; a deep,
rich voice, an air of command, plain features, abundant gray hair, imported
clothes, wonderful, keen, dark eyes overlapped by a fold of the crumpled
eyelid,--a personage, a character, a life, full of complex energies and
domineering good sense. With gold eye-glasses astride her high-bridged
nose, knees crossed, one large, well-shod foot extended, this mother in
Israel sat absorbed like a man in the daily paper, and wroth like a man at
its contents. Occasionally she would emit an impatient protest in the deep,
maternal tones, and the graceful daughter would turn her head and read over
her shoulder in silent assent.
"How trivial, how self-centred we are!" Mrs. Valentin murmured, leaning
across to claim a look from Elsie. "I realize it the moment we get outside
our own little treadmill. We do nothing but take thought for what we shall
eat and drink and wherewithal we shall be clothed. I haven't thought of
the country once this morning. I've been wondering if all the good summer
things are gone at Hollander's.
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