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Updated: June 10, 2025
There was nothing neurotic about him. He was fundamentally normal fundamentally wholesome with no trace of mawkishness in his nature. As he sipped the hot golden-brown coffee, he tried to get at just what it was that he felt when he now looked at her. It came to him suddenly and he spoke it aloud, "I seem to have, this minute, a fresher vision of life than I have known since I was twenty."
Coralie herself sat in a large velvet fauteuil, the rich color of which formed a magnificent background to her bright face and golden-brown hair. She was dressed with unusual elegance; a robe of soft, black crape fell in graceful folds around her. I never shall understand ladies' dresses, but this was made so that the beautiful, white neck and arms were bare.
At this moment the setting sun flooded the poor plain room with light; the unpainted wood was all of a golden-brown, and Ann Bray, with her gray hair and aged face, stood at the head of the table in a kind of aureole. Mrs. Trimble's face was all aquiver as she looked at her; she thought of the text about two or three being gathered together, and was half afraid.
Monteith dealt many hours of the day with dollars and cents, notes and bills; still, he knew poetry when he saw it, and that golden-brown curl was to him a bit of a poem.
He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon garcon, and she meant it.
He stroked the golden-brown hair with an utter sense of helplessness. "Nothing yet," he said finally, and there was a thin assumption of cheeriness in his tone. "It may be another hour, but it will come it will come." "But if it doesn't, Gene?" she queried insistently. Always her mind went back to that possibility. "We shall cross no bridges until we reach them," he replied.
The nurse with the halo of golden-brown hair got interested in her American patient, and would sit and talk with him every chance she got. She learned about Eleeza Betooser and the babies who had been blown to pieces in the explosion. Also she learned about Jimmie's being a Socialist, and asked him questions about it. Wasn't he just a little hard on the leisure classes?
A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown cheeks of purplish red a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods!
Her hair was of a very light shade of golden-brown, her complexion wonderfully fair. Lady Weybourne glanced at her shoes and gloves, at the bag which she was carrying, and the handle of her parasol. Then she nodded approvingly. "You don't know her?" Richard asked, in a disappointed whisper. She shook her head. "Sorry," she admitted, "but I don't. They've probably only just arrived."
For a moment Davilof remained watching her, the sunshine, slanting between the leaves of the trees, throwing queer little flickering lights into the hazel eyes and glinting on his golden-brown hair and beard. "What are you doing here?" she repeated. "I came to see you," he said simply. There was something disarming in the very simplicity of his reply.
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