This woman, you
could see at a glance, was not born to the circus and its hardships;
she came of another world. Tall and slender and proud she was, endowed
with the poise of a thorough gentlewoman. Hers was a fine, brilliant
face, crowned by dark hair that grew low and waved about her temples.
Deep, tender brown eyes met yours steadily and with unwavering candor.
There was strength and loyalty and purity in their depths. No
hardness, no callousness, no guile, no rancor there: only the clear,
sweet eyes of a woman whose soul is white. There was an infinite pity
in them now.
The clown had shaken the boy into partial wakefulness. He was sitting
up, leaning forward on his hands, his eyes blinking in the contest
between sleep and amazement.
"Get up," said Grinaldi, the clown, shaking him by the shoulder. "What
are you doing here, boy?"
The lad came quickly to his feet and would have rushed away into the
darkness behind him had it not been for the restraining grip on his
arm. He felt himself being dragged into the stuffy, mysterious
vestibule of the tent, into plain view of a half-dozen vividly attired
persons, almost under the feet of stolid, gayly caparisoned horses
wearing the great back-pads.
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