It was presumably of cotton, for Lucia herself had informed me that
she never wore anything in the mornings except cotton or serge; if
so, it was a glorified cotton of a clear rose tint. Film upon film
of lace hung over it in transparent folds, through which the glowing
colour deepened and blushed at her slightest movement, as the hot
colour in the heart of a rose flushes through all its leaves.
Above her supple hips, clasping her waist, shone an open-work band
of Maltese silver, and above this rose delicate vase-like lines,
swelling and expanding at last into the rounded curves of her bosom;
here the colour seemed to glow deeper and warmer where her heart was
beating tumultuously, and then towards her neck it paled again,
beneath ruffle and ruffle of lace that lay like foam against the
soft, snow-white throat. It was a symphony of colour. A perfect
harmony of perfect tones in union with the brilliant fairness of her
skin. The sleeves, half open to the elbow, revealed a white,
rounded, downy arm, and the thousand subtle pink-and-white tints of
her flesh seemed to melt and merge themselves into a bewildering,
distracting glow within that rose-hued sleeve. She made one
exquisite, intoxicating vision to the senses. In those moments I can
hardly say I saw her. She rather seemed to sway before the dizzy
sight of my excited eyes.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158