Only when she spoke to me, and I went nearer, did I detect
the heaviness beneath her eyes and the nervous quiver of her mouth,
which drooped a little at the corners. Tired and worn as she was, I
never saw her afterwards--not even when she was dressed for the
opera--look quite so lovely, so much like an exquisite flower, as she
did on that first afternoon. When I knew her better, I discovered that
she was a changeable beauty, there were days when all the colour seemed
to go out of her, and she looked dull and haggard, but at her best no
one I've ever seen could compare with her.
She asked me a few questions, and though she was pleasant and kind, I
knew that she scarcely listened to my responses. While I sat down at the
desk and dipped my pen into the ink, she flung herself on the couch
before the fire with a movement which struck me as hopeless. I saw her
feet tap the white fur rug, while she plucked nervously at the lace on
the end of one of the gold-coloured sofa cushions. For an instant the
thought flashed through my mind that she had been taking something--a
drug of some sort--and that she was suffering now from the effects of
it. Then she looked at me steadily, almost as if she were reading my
thoughts, and I knew that I was wrong. Her large radiant eyes were as
innocent as a child's.
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