long brown fringe.
Really, he seemed sinister to her, almost repellant. Yet she hated to think that she merely was afraid: that she had not the courage. She sat with her head bent, the light falling on her soft hair and on the heavy, silvery-coloured embroidery of her shawl, which she wrapped round her tight, as the Indian women do their rebozos. And his black eyes watched her, and watched the rich shawl, with a peculiar intense glitter. The shawl, too, fascinated him.
“Well!” he said suddenly. “When shall it be?”
“What?” she said, glancing up into his black eyes with real fear.
“The marriage.”
She looked at him, almost hypnotised with amazement that he should have gone so far. And even now, she had not the power to make him retreat.
“I don’t know,” she