The latter fact she faced
with an unflinching, cold conviction which was not feminine at all. She
did not say that she was hideous, for the sake of hearing a
contradiction or a series of saving clauses. She never spoke of it to
any one. She had grown up with it, and as it was beyond doubt, so was it
outside discussion. All her femininity seemed to be concentrated, all
her vanity centred, on her hair. It was her one pride, perhaps her one
hope. Women have been loved for their voices. Catrina's voice was
musical enough, but it was deep and strong. It was passionate, tender if
she wished, fascinating; but it was not lovable. If the voice may win
love, why not the hair?
Catrina despised all men but one--that one she worshipped. She lived
night and day with one great desire, beside which heaven and hell were
mere words. Neither the hope of the one nor the fear of the other in any
way touched or affected her desire. She wanted to make Paul Alexis love
her; and, womanlike, she clung to the one womanly charm that was
hers--the wonderful golden hair. Pathetic, aye, pathetic--with a grin
behind the pathos, as there ever is.
She sat down at the piano, and her strong, small hands tore the heart
out of each wire. There are some people who get farther into a piano
than others, making the wires speak as with a voice.
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