Any one less like a love-lorn maiden than Ann looked at that moment could
hardly be imagined. She was wearing a charming frock the colour of a pool
of deep green sea-water, with a handful of orange-golden poppies clustered
at the waist, and as the lights flickered over her, from the swathed
gold-brown of her hair to the tips of her small gold shoes, she was as
detail-perfect as a woman who hadn't a single care in life. The simple,
appealing black frock generally adopted by the heroine in fiction who
has been crossed in love did not allure Ann in the very least. Whatever
happened to her, she would always confront the world with a brave face. And
even if her small, individual barque of life were hopelessly foundered she
would at least go down with colours flying.
Nevertheless, to the discerning eye the alteration in her was very
palpable. In repose her mouth fell into lines of quiet endurance, and her
eyes held a look of deep sadness. But, fortunately for most of us, the
discerning eye is a rarity, and in public Ann rarely allowed herself to
lapse into one of those moments of abstracted thought when the unguarded
expression of the face gives away the secrets of the heart.
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