I must give my reader a shadow of her. She was rather tall,
slender, and fair. But her hair was dark, and so crinkly that, when
merely parted, it did all the rest itself. Her forehead was rather
low. Her eyes were softly dark, and her features very regular--her
nose perhaps hardly large enough, or her chin. Her mouth was rather
thin-lipped, but would have been sweet except for a seemingly
habitual expression of pain. A pair of dark brows overhung her
sweet eyes, and gave a look of doubtful temper, yet restored
something of the strength lacking a little in nose and chin. It was
an interesting--not a quite harmonious face, and in happiness might,
Donal thought, be beautiful even. Her figure was eminently
graceful--as Donal saw when he raised his eyes at the sound of her
retreat. He thought she needed not have run away as from something
dangerous: why did she not pass him like any other servant of the
house? But what seemed to him like contempt did not hurt him. He
was too full of realities to be much affected by opinion however
shown. Besides, he had had his sorrow and had learned his lesson.
He was a poet--but one of the few without any weak longing after
listening ears. The poet whose poetry needs an audience, can be but
little of a poet; neither can the poetry that is of no good to the
man himself, be of much good to anybody else.
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