AC dBooks

It was
Alma Lier.
She was now about seven-and-twenty and in the prime of her young
womanhood. Her beautiful auburn hair lay low over her broad forehead,
almost descending to her long sable-coloured eyebrows. Her cheeks were
very white, (rather beyond the whiteness of nature, I thought), and her
lips were more than commonly red, with the upper one a little thin and
the lower slightly set forward. But her eyes were still her
distinguishing feature, being larger and blacker than before and having
that vivid gaze that looked through and through you and made you feel
that few women and no man in the world would have the power to resist
her.
Her movements were almost noiseless, and as she sank into the chair by
my side there was a certain over-sweetness in the soft succulent tones
of the voice with which she began to tell me what had happened to her
since I had seen her last.
It was a rather painful story. After two or three years in a girls'
college in her own country she had set out with her mother for a long
tour of the European capitals.


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