There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the
man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world
for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she
stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the
souls of women against the fate of their conditions. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled
one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which
Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have
sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of
vivacity and enjoyment. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’
Roding ignored this. "Come along! We'll start that
concert right away. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his
lashes. It
came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly
fantastic sort of dream.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 29-06-2024 06:11:49