His sentiment for the girl had
always suffered, he was aware, from too many opportunities. He had
sometimes wished that an obstacle might arise, that the formidable
parents would try for once to tear them apart instead of thrust them
together, but, in spite of the changeless familiarity of their
association, he was presently to discover how little he had known of the
real Margaret beneath the flowing grace and the nut-brown hair and the
eyes like blue larkspur. Though the tribal customs had shaped her body
and formed her manners, a rare essence of personality escaped like a
perfume from the hereditary mould of the race.
As he looked at her now, sitting gracefully on the ruby brocade of one
of the rosewood chairs, with her lovely head framed by the band of
intricate carving, he was aware that the delicate subtleties and
shadings of her feminine charm made an entirely fresh appeal to his
perceptions, if not to his senses. He had never admired her appearance
more than he did at that instant; and yet his gaze was as dispassionate
as the one he bestowed on the Sully portrait of which she reminded him.
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