THE WINDOW OF THE SPHINX
He was in the little sewing-room where he had seen her the morning he had proposed their ride. Here, too, twilight was gathered. The walls were dusky, the furniture dim; only at the window a light came; and here, close to it, Blanche Rader was sitting, sewing. Her gown was white, and flowed off into shadow. She did not move when he came in, she did not quiver an eyelash, her hands did not cease their regular motion. Softly, so as not to startle her into consciousness of his presence, he entered and sat down in a chair farthest from her, deepest in shadow.
From here he saw her face in profile. Her head was bent and held a little to one side. The last of the day shone on the curve of her chin, the curve of her lips, lay upon her forehead, found bronze in her hair, and touched the edge of her red ribbon to fire. Her shoulders drawn a little forward by their task and the turn of her long throat lent something wistful and appealing to her aspect. Her hands rapidly drew the thread in and out. He watched her, and the wonder grew. He was weary with exertion, aching with the cut on his head. He was an expert plainsman, had lost two days and was no nearer the object of his search, nor the way of reaching it, than he had been at first. This fragile girl, curled over her sewing, had it all in her head.
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