She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you. Marvel, who proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams.
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