He lowered his eyes, singularly
abashed. A trim, clean figure in red tights stood before him,
absolutely without fear or shame or in the least conscious of her
attire.
He was in her world, that was all. In his, outside that canvas
crucible and between performances, she would have died of
mortification if, by chance, there had been one-tenth of the exposure.
Here, she was as fully dressed and as modestly as she would be an hour
later, clothed from head to foot in the conventional garments of her
sex, rigidly observing the strictest laws of delicacy.
A trim, straight figure she was, just rounding into young womanhood;
turning fifteen, in truth. Lithe and graceful, with the sinuous
development of a perfectly healthy young girl who has gone through the
expanding process without pausing at the awkward stage, due no doubt
to her life and training. Firm, well-rounded hips; a small waist, full
chest and perfect shoulders, straight, exquisitely modeled limbs and
high, arched insteps: perfect in girlhood, with promise of the divine
at the height of full womanhood.
The mother arose at once. She remembered that he was in their world.
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