She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. “Any choice as to which of the Halls? You can pick and choose, you know. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. She had remained patently unavailable to him. After all there are other things. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. He had thought it might have that effect.
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