Every childish feature that he
remembered so well had been subtly vignetted by the soft touch of
nature; he was sensing for the first time the vast distinction between
fifteen and twenty--the distinction without the difference; for she
was the same Christine, after all. It was unbelievable. A delicate bit
of magic was being performed before his very eyes; the slim, girlish
sweetheart of other days was being effaced. The soft, insinuating
loveliness of young womanhood, with all its grace, all its charms, was
being revealed to him as if by some wonderful process in photography--
new shades, new lights, new tints, all ineffably joyous in tone. He
could not remember that her hair was so soft and wavy at the temples,
nor had it ever seemed to caress her ears so adorably. Why was it that
he had never noticed the delicate arch of her eyebrows? Why had he
failed to see the limpid sweetness in her eyes? And her hair, too,
seemed to cling differently above the slim, round neck. What magic
sculptor had chiseled her lips into their present form? Her chin; her
nose; her broad, white brow--why had he never observed them before?
And what was this strange, new light in the dark eyes? This look that
was no longer childish, no longer inquisitive, but steady with
understanding!
The girl of fifteen was gone.
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