How prettily she stands! how prettily she walks! what a sensitive,
spirited, clear-tinted face it is! This was pretty much the
interpretation of his reverie, as Colonel Stafford's large and
respectable party obligingly vanished for a while into air. Is it sad? I
think it _is_ sad--I don't know--and how sweetly and how drolly it
lighted up; at that moment he saw her smile--the pleasant mischief in
it--the dark violet glance--the wonderful soft dimple in chin and
cheek--the little crimson mouth, and its laughing coronet of pearls--and
then all earnest again, and still so animated! What feminine
intelligence and character there is in that face!--'tis pleasanter to me
than conversation--'tis a fairy tale, or--or a dream, it's so
interesting--I never know, you see, what's coming--Is not it wonderful?
What is she talking about now?--what does it signify?--she's so
strangely beautiful--she's like those Irish melodies, I can't reach all
their meaning; I only know their changes keep me silent, and are playing
with my heart-strings.
Devereux's contemplation of the animated _tete-a-tete_, for such, in
effect, it seemed to him at the other side of the table, was, however,
by no means altogether pleasurable.
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