Excerpt from The Story of a Novel: And Other Stories
The guests had finally gone and the servants, fatigued by the excitement of the last busy days, retired out of sight; the house seemed to sink into the depths of the park, where the long unbroken silence aroused as always a longing in the woman"s heart to play the game of imagination and revery.
She was twenty-seven, small, fair and slender, with an oval face pale as ivory; her eyes, the color of waves, were a trifle too large; they made her look a little older than her years. They were almost hidden under long eyelashes and glanced about with mingled distrust and expectancy.
There are women who are always expecting something: in their girlhood they await the coming of the man who is to love them, but when he comes, though they listen earnestly without the least perturbation, their eyes seem to say: "This is all very natural, but what next?" It would be a mistake to consider such women cold and deliberating.
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