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Updated: May 10, 2025
The moon was bright now, and the thought-furrow showed deep between her brows, but she said nothing. The tree-tops whispered, and the girl shivered slightly. He bent forward and folded the cape across her throat. Still she did not move. "Cara, I love you," he repeated insistently. "Don't I can't listen." Her voice was one of forced calm. Then, turning suddenly, she laid her hand on his arm.
It was a face that triumphed over mere prettiness with hints of challenging qualities; with individuality, with possibilities of purpose, with glints of merry humor and unspoken sadness; with deep-sleeping potentiality for passion; with a hundred charming whimsicalities. The eyes were just now fixed on the burning beauty of the sunset and the thought-furrow was delicately accentuated.
She was silent, but she shook her head, and the man's solicitous scrutiny caught the deepening thought-furrow between her eyes, and the twitching of her fingers. He bent forward and spoke softly. "Cara, what is it?" She looked up and smiled. "I was remembering that I stood just here, once before," she said.
Then there was the suggestion of a thought-furrow between the brows and a chin delicately chiseled, but resolute and fascinatingly uptilted.
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