She was small, and bright, and gay, with large black eyes which
sparkled like little ones as well as gleamed like great ones, and a
miniature Greek face, containing a neat nose and a mouth the most
changeable ever seen--now a mere negation in red, and now long enough
for sorrow to couch on at her ease--only there was no sorrow near it,
nor in its motions and changes much of any other expression than mere
life. Her hair was a dead brown, mistakable for black, with a burnt
quality in it, and so curly, in parts so obstinately crinkly, as to
suggest wool--and negro blood from some far fount of tropic ardor. Her
figure was, if not essentially graceful yet thoroughly symmetrical, and
her head, hands and feet were small and well-shaped. Almost brought up
in her mother's shop, one much haunted by holiday-makers in the town,
she had as little shyness as forwardness, being at once fearless and
modest, gentle and merry, noiseless and swift--a pleasure to eyes,
nerves and mind. The sudden apparition of her in a rose-bud print, to
wait upon the Raymounts the next morning at breakfast, startled them all
with a sweet surprise. Every time she left the room the talk about her
broke out afresh, and Hester's information concerning her was a welcome
sop to the Cerberus of their astonishment.
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