With abandon of the mind came a
recklessness of body, which gave her, all at once, a voluptuousness more
in keeping with the typical maid of Andalusia. It got into the eyes and
senses of Jean Jacques, in a way which had nothing to do with the
philosophy of Descartes, or Kant, or Aristotle, or Hegel.
"It was beautiful in much--my childhood," she said in a low voice,
dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, "as my father said. My mother
was lovely to see, but not bigger than I was at twelve--so petite, and
yet so perfect in form--like a lark or a canary. Yes, and she could
sing--anything. Not like me with a voice which has the note of a drum or
an organ--"
"Of a flute, bright Senorita," interposed Jean Jacques.
"But high, and with the trills in the skies, and all like a laugh with a
tear in it. When she went to the river to wash--"
She was going to say "wash the clothes," but she stopped in time and said
instead, "wash her spaniel and her pony"--her face was flushed again with
shame, for to lie about one's mother is a sickening thing, and her mother
never had a spaniel or a pony--"the women on the shore wringing their
clothes, used to beg her to sing. To the hum of the river she would make
the music which they loved--"
"La Manola and such?" interjected Jean Jacques eagerly. "That's a fine
song as you sing it.
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