He forgot that a few days ago she had been his deadliest enemy. He
forgot the existence of a man named Black Roger Audemard. Her
slimness was as it had pictured itself to him in the hot sands.
Her hair was as he had seen it there. It was coiled upon her head
like ropes of spun silk, jet-black, glowing softly. But it was her
eyes he stared at, and so fixed was his look that the red lips
trembled a bit on the verge of a smile. She was not embarrassed.
There was no color in the clear whiteness of her skin, except that
redness of her lips.
"I thought you had black eyes," he said bluntly. "I'm glad you
haven't. I don't like them. Yours are as brown as--as--"
"Please, m'sieu," she interrupted him, sitting down close beside
him. "Will you eat--now?"
A spoon was at his mouth, and he was forced to take it in or have
its contents spilled over him. The spoon continued to move quickly
between the bowl and his mouth. He was robbed of speech. And the
girl's eyes, as surely as he was alive, were beginning to laugh at
him. They were a wonderful brown, with little, golden specks in
them, like the freckles he had seen in wood-violets. Her lips
parted.
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