"What is she like?"
Paul hesitated.
"Tall, I suppose?" suggested the stunted woman at his side.
"Yes."
"And graceful?"
"Yes."
"Has she--pretty hair?" asked Catrina.
"I think so--yes."
"You are not observant," said the girl in a singularly even and
emotionless voice. "Perhaps you never noticed."
"Not particularly," answered Paul.
The girl raised her face. There was a painful smile twisting her lips.
The moonlight fell upon her; the deep shadows beneath the eyes made her
face wear a grin. Some have seen such a grin on the face of a drowning
man--a sight not to be forgotten.
"Where does she live?" asked Catrina. She was unaware of the thought of
murder that was in her own heart. Nevertheless, the desire--indefinite,
shapeless--was there to kill this woman, who was tall and beautiful,
whom Paul Alexis loved.
It must be remembered in extenuation that Catrina Lanovitch had lived
nearly all her life in the province of Tver. She was not modern at all.
Deprived of the advantages of our enlightened society press, without the
benefit of our decadent fictional literature, she had lamentably narrow
views of life. She was without that deep philosophy which teaches you,
mademoiselle, who read this guileless tale, that nothing matters very
much; that love is but a passing amusement, the plaything of an hour;
that if Tom is faithless, Dick is equally amusing; while Harry's taste
in gloves and compliments is worthy of some consideration.
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