Her eyes, though they were under the shadow of her hat, and
he could not be certain, he diagnosed as green, or maybe blue, or
possibly grey. Not that it mattered, for he had a catholic taste in
feminine eyes. So long as they were large and bright, as were
the specimens under his immediate notice, he was not the man to
quibble about a point of colour. Her nose was small, and on the very
tip of it there was a tiny freckle. Her mouth was nice and wide, her
chin soft and round. She was just about the height which every girl
ought to be. Her figure was trim, her feet tiny, and she wore one of
those dresses of which a man can say no more than that they look pretty
well all right.
Nature abhors a vacuum. Samuel Marlowe was a susceptible young man, and
for many a long month his heart had been lying empty, all swept and
garnished, with "Welcome" on the mat. This girl seemed to rush in and
fill it. She was not the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She was the
third prettiest. He had an orderly mind, one capable of classifying and
docketing girls.
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