She Was A Tall Girl, About Eighteen
Years Old, With Regular Features, A Skin Somewhat Citrine-Coloured, But
Soft And Clear, Symmetrical Eyebrows, The Most Beautiful Eyes, And A
Figure All Grace.
There was no head thrown back, no straightened neck,
no flat shoulders, nor toes turned out—in fact, no “elegant” barbarisms:
The
shape was what the Arabs love, soft, bending, and relaxed, as a woman’s
[p.198] figure ought to be. Unhappily she wore, instead of the usual
veil, a “Yashmak” of transparent muslin, bound round the face; and the
chaperone, mother, or duenna, by whose side she stood, was apparently a
very unsuspicious or complaisant old person. Flirtilla fixed a glance
of admiration upon my cashmere. I directed a reply with interest at her
eyes. She then by the usual coquettish gesture, threw back an inch or
two of head-veil, disclosing broad bands of jetty hair, crowning a
lovely oval. My palpable admiration of the new charm was rewarded by a
partial removal of the Yashmak, when a dimpled mouth and a rounded chin
stood out from the envious muslin. Seeing that my companions were
safely employed, I entered upon the dangerous ground of raising hand to
forehead. She smiled almost imperceptibly, and turned away. The pilgrim
was in ecstasy.
The sermon was then half over. I was resolved to stay upon the plain
and see what Flirtilla would do. Grace to the cashmere, we came to a
good understanding. The next page will record my disappointment—that
evening the pilgrim resumed his soiled cotton cloth, and testily
returned the red shawl to the boy Mohammed.
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