Her Large Eyes Were
Blue, The Rare Blue Of A Perfect Summer's Day.
There was no need to ask
her where she had got that colour; undoubtedly in heaven "as she came
Through." The features were perfect, and she pale, or so it had seemed
to me at first, but when viewing her more closely I saw that colour was
an important element in her loveliness - a colour so delicate that I
fell to comparing her flower-like face with this or that particular
flower. I had thought of her as a snowdrop at first, then a windflower,
the March anemone, with its touch of crimson, then various white,
ivory, and cream-coloured blossoms with a faintly-seen pink blush to
them.
Her dress, except the stocking, was not black; it was grey or dove-
colour, and over it a cream or pale-fawn-coloured cloak with hood,
which with its lace border seemed just the right setting for the
delicate puritan face. She walked in silence while they talked and
talked, ever in grave subdued tones. Indeed it would not have been
seemly for her to open her lips in such company. I called her
Priscilla, but she was also like Milton's pensive nun, devout and pure,
only her looks were not commercing with the skies; they were generally
cast down, although it is probable that they did occasionally venture
to glance at the groups of merry pink-legged children romping with the
waves below.
I had seen her three or four or more times on the front before we
became acquainted; and she too had noticed me, just raising her blue
eyes to mine when we passed one another, with a shy sweet look of
recognition in them - a questioning look; so that we were not exactly
strangers.
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