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She was, however, one of those girls who start by being "ugly" or "queer-looking," or downright "homely," and end by becoming "interesting" or "picturesque" or "fascinating," according to the divagations of the individual vocabulary. She had the beaute troublante. At first sight, you might have called her gipsy, Indian, Kanaka, Chinese, Japanese, Korean any exotic type that you had not seen.
Her beaute troublante had gone. Her face was, the face of a happy woman. The maternal look in her eyes was duplicated by the married look in her figure. She was always busy. Even now, though she chattered, she sewed; her little fingers fluttered like the wings of an imprisoned bird. Indeed, she looked like a little sober mother-bird in her gray and brown draperies.
If there were acute disquieting moments when the troublante quality of her loveliness tossed him about unmercifully weren't they moments that any stranger might go through sitting next to her at dinner? No the truth always had been that he was really fond of her. "I'm glad now," she smiled to herself, "how lucky that we can't always sculpt our own relationships."
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