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Its windows, innocent of glass, were closed by wooden shutters, roughly bolted, which creaked and rattled in the gale. A very fine-looking old man rose from the divan to greet us. 'What countryman art thou? A Turk, or one of us? he asked, as I removed my head-shawl. 'An Englishman, sayest thou? He seized my hand, and pressed it. 'An Englishman any Englishman is good, and his word is sure.
At that point, the hoof-sheaths that trimmed a rope near the entrance rattled. The semicircle craned their necks. A plump hand was pulling aside the flap of the lodge. Then, through the low aperture and into the light of the fire stepped an Indian woman. She flung back a head-shawl and faced red man and white. A murmur came from the braves. It was Brown Mink.
You said work was divine." "You can work in a higher sphere." "And this is the Socialist! I really thought you'd want me to turn factory lass." "You are laughing at me." "I am perfectly serious. I won't drag you down from Socialism, and a head-shawl wouldn't become me." "Why, you'd look sweet in it. Dear, dear, Miss O'Keeffe " "Good-by." "No, you shan't go." He barred her way.
All those whirring engines in the misty valley below were her demon-slaves, and the chimneys puffed up incense at her. When she drove out, her life-blood coursed pleasurably through the ramping, glossy horses. Mrs. Maper, in short, saw herself an empress. It was simply impossible for her to realise that there were eyes which could still see the head-shawl, not the crown.
She was a tall and still good-looking person, and this added to her fatal complacency. Eileen saw that she imagined God made the woman and money the lady, and that between a female in a Paris bonnet and a female in a head-shawl there was a natural gap as between a crested cockatoo and a hedge-sparrow. Mrs.
Her voice trembled over the words, and she wiped her eyes with the corner of her head-shawl; but her face remained as immobile as features cast in metal. When one has wept out of the heart for years, as Sarah Newbolt had wept, the face is no longer a barometer over the tempests of the soul. Isom Chase was silent.
She never got over cutting bread as the peasant women do it the loaf held firmly against her breast, the knife cutting toward her. Hahn used to watch her and laugh. Sometimes she would put on the little black head-shawl of her Budapest days and sing the street-song about the hundred geese in a row. A delightful, impudent figure.
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