"Oh, yes, I do seem to remember that curious
little outsider!" this nod seemed to say. Thereafter, all cognizance
of her evaporated: the curious little outsider was permitted no
further existence worth the struggle. Nevertheless, she flashed in
the corner of his eye too often. He was aware of her dancing
demurely, and of her viciously flirtatious habit of never looking up
at her partner, but keeping her eyes concealed beneath downcast
lashes; and he had over-sufficient consciousness of her between the
dances, though it was not possible to see her at these times, even if
he had cared to look frankly in her direction--she was invisible in a
thicket of young dresscoats. The black thicket moved as she moved and
her location was hatefully apparent, even if he had not heard her
voice laughing from the thicket. It was annoying how her voice,
though never loud, pursued him. No matter how vociferous were other
voices, all about, he seemed unable to prevent himself from constantly
recognizing hers. It had a quaver in it, not pathetic--rather
humorous than pathetic--a quality which annoyed him to the point of
rage, because it was so difficult to get away from.
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