Her marvelous resemblance
to Leoline, in all but one thing, struck him more and more -
there was the same beautiful transparent colorless complexion,
the same light, straight, graceful figure, the same small oval
delicate features; the same profuse waves of shining dark hair,
the same large, dark, brilliant eyes; the same, little, rosy
pretty mouth, like one of Correggio's smiling angels. The one
thing wanting was expression - in Leoline's face there was a kind
of childlike simplicity; a look half shy, half fearless, half
solemn in her wonderful eyes; but in this, her prototype, there
was nothing shy or solemn; all was cold, hard, and glittering,
and the brooding eyes were full of a dull, dusky fire. She
looked as hard and cold and bitter, as she was beautiful; and Sir
Norman began to perplex himself inwardly as to what had brought
her here. Surely not sympathy, for nothing wearing that face of
stone, could even know the meaning of such a word. While he
looked at her, half wonderingly, half pityingly, half tenderly -
a queer word that last, but the feeling was caused by her
resemblance to Leoline - she had been moodily watching an old
gray rat, the patriarch of his tribe, who was making toward her
in short runs, stopping between each one to stare at her, out of
his unpleasantly bright eyes.
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