Having installed herself, with feminine instinct, in a crimson couch that
framed her to perfection, Zoe Vizard was at work embroidering. She had
some flowers, and their leaves, lying near her on a little table, and,
with colored silks, chenille, etc., she imitated each flower and its leaf
very adroitly without a pattern. This was clever, and, indeed, rather a
rare talent; but she lowered her head over this work with a demure,
beaming complacency embroidery alone never yet excited without external
assistance. Accordingly, on a large stool, or little ottoman, at her
feet, but at a respectful distance, sat a young man, almost her match in
beauty, though in quite another style. In height about five feet ten,
broad-shouldered, clean-built, a model of strength, agility, and grace.
His face fair, fresh, and healthy-looking; his large eyes hazel; the
crisp curling hair on his shapely head a wonderful brown in the mass, but
with one thin streak of gold above the forehead, and all the loose hairs
glittering golden. A short clipped mustache saved him from looking too
feminine, yet did not hide his expressive mouth. He had white hands, as
soft and supple as a woman's, a mellow voice, and a winning tongue.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48