A woman frequently betrays her beauty by the poise of her head, by
the turn of her neck, or the lines of her figure, just as truly as
by a full glimpse of her features. Hence it was that Anthony felt
a certain pleasurable expectancy as he crossed in front of the
deck-house, realizing that she was approaching. But when they had
met and passed he went his way vaguely disappointed. Instead of a
girl, as the first sight of her youthful figure had led him to
expect, he had seen a woman of perhaps forty. There was little in
her countenance to reveal her age except a certain settled look
that does not go with girlhood, and, while no one could have
thought her plain, she was certainly not so handsome as he had
imagined from a distance. Yet the face was attractive. The eyes
were wide-set, gray, and very clear, the mouth large enough to be
expressive. Her hair shone in the morning sun with a delicate
bronze lustre like that of a turkey's wing. It did not add to the
young man's comfort to realize that her one straight, casual
glance in passing had taken him in from his soiled collar to his
somewhat extreme patent leathers with the tan tops and pearl
buttons.
Being very young himself and of limited social experience, he
classed all women as either young or old--there was no middle
ground.
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