"There's a grain of truth in the notion too, but not
in the way she has of looking at it."
"All women are witches!" said Duprez. "Britta is a little witch
herself!"
Britta's rosy cheeks grew rosier at this, and she tossed her chestnut
curls with an air of saucy defiance that delighted the Frenchman. He
forgot his wounded cheek and his disfiguring bandages in the
contemplation of the little plump figure, cased in its close-fitting
scarlet bodice, and the tempting rosy lips that were in such close
proximity to his touch.
"If it were not for those red hands!" he thought. "Dieu! what a charming
child she would be! One would instantly kill the grandmother and kiss
the granddaughter!"
And he watched her with admiration as she busied herself about the
supper-table, attending to every one with diligence and care, but
reserving her special services for Thelma, whom she waited on with a
mingled tenderness, and reverence, that were both touching and pretty to
see.
The conversation now became general, and nothing further occurred to
disturb the harmony and hilarity of the party--only Errington seemed
somewhat abstracted, and answered many questions that were put to him at
haphazard, without knowing, or possibly caring, whether his replies were
intelligible or incoherent.
Pages:
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318