” “Lady Ferringhall—alone?” Ennison exclaimed. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom. I wonder what it was. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. .
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