At any rate, it was with no positive
surprise, but as if I had all along expected the incident, that,
directing my eyes thitherward, I beheld--like a full-length picture,
in the space between the heavy festoons of the window curtains--no
other than Zenobia! At the same instant, my thoughts made sure of
the identity of the figure in the boudoir. It could only be
Priscilla.
Zenobia was attired, not in the almost rustic costume which she had
heretofore worn, but in a fashionable morning-dress. There was,
nevertheless, one familiar point. She had, as usual, a flower in her
hair, brilliant and of a rare variety, else it had not been Zenobia.
After a brief pause at the window, she turned away, exemplifying, in
the few steps that removed her out of sight, that noble and beautiful
motion which characterized her as much as any other personal charm.
Not one woman in a thousand could move so admirably as Zenobia. Many
women can sit gracefully; some can stand gracefully; and a few,
perhaps, can assume a series of graceful positions. But natural
movement is the result and expression of the whole being, and cannot
be well and nobly performed unless responsive to something in the
character. I often used to think that music--light and airy, wild
and passionate, or the full harmony of stately marches, in accordance
with her varying mood--should have attended Zenobia's footsteps.
I waited for her reappearance. It was one peculiarity,
distinguishing Zenobia from most of her sex, that she needed for her
moral well-being, and never would forego, a large amount of physical
exercise.
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