Every
line of the slim, lissom figure, every curve of the soft,
undulating body, the sweep of rounded arm, of tapering
waist-line, of well-turned ankle, contributed evidence of what it
were folly to ask further proof. How could he have ever seen
those lovely, soft-lashed eyes and the delicate little hands
without conviction coming home to him? And how could he have
heard the low murmur of her voice, the catch of her sobs, without
knowing that they were a denial of masculinity?
She was dressed like a Spanish dancing girl, in short kilts, red
sash, and jaunty little cap placed sidewise on her head. She wore
a wig of black hair, and her face was stained to a dusky, gipsy
hue. Over her thumb hung castanets and in her hand was a
tambourine. Roguishly she began to sway into a slow, rhythmic
dance, beating time with her instruments as she moved. Gradually
the speed quickened to a faster time. She swung gracefully to and
fro with all the lithe agility of the race she personified. No
part could have been better conceived or executed. Even
physically she displayed the large, brilliant eyes, the
ringleted, coal-black hair, the tawny skin, and the flashing
smile that showed small teeth of dazzling ivory, characteristic
of the Romanies he had met.
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