I wonder how, in
their canons of beauty, the Latins could possibly have inscribed
Frons minima, underrating the forehead, the sublimest feature in the
human face, the great distinction between our countenance and that
of our Simian prototypes. In this woman I thought it was, perhaps,
her chief attraction. Round the temples and summit her light hair
lay in thick loose curls. It did not "stray" anywhere. On the
contrary, it was very intelligent hair, and knew exactly what to do
with itself, how to curl upwards here and catch the light, how to
cluster together there in adorable circles and half-circles in the
shadow. And then came her forehead, a smooth band of white velvet,
upon which two bow-like eyebrows were delicately traced. Excepting
these and the vivid blue colouring in the eyes, and the rose and
white tinting of the flesh, she had no positive beauties. The nose
was a straight little nose, but very English, not the least
sculptural, and the lips were rather too thick. They looked best
when she was speaking, and their crimson was divided, and showed the
small, even teeth behind them. Sitting watching her, now that her
face was no longer flushed and animated in conversation, I noticed
it looked white and tired, and all round the eyes were faint,
discoloured shades. She looked overworked: looked as I myself looked
in the early morning when I went upstairs from a night's work in my
study to dress for breakfast.
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