She sat on the floor,
some blankets and furs drawn around her, the book on her lap, the
stupidly dull lamp hanging beside her on a part of the swivel. Her
hair lay loose over her neck and shoulders and shimmered around
her face with a cloud-like effect, giving to the features in their
repose a setting that intensified their sweetness and sadness. In
a very low but distinct voice was reading, with a slightly
quavering emotion:
"Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,
Que ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpe au soleil."
When Hamilton, after stealthily mounting the rough stairway which
led to her door, peeped in through a space between the slabs and
felt a stroke of disappointment, seeing at a glance that
Farnsworth was not there. He gazed for some time, not without a
sense of villainy, while she continued her sweetly monotonous
reading. If his heart had been as hard as the iron swivel-balls
that lay beside Alice, he must still have felt a thrill of
something like tender sympathy. She now showed no trace of the
vivacious sauciness which had heretofore always marked her
features when she was in his presence. A dainty gentleness,
touched with melancholy, gave to her face an appealing look all
the more powerful on account of its unconscious simplicity of
expression.
The man felt an impulse pure and noble, which would have borne him
back down the ladder and away from the building, had not a
stronger one set boldly in the opposite direction.
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