Ours was a silent meeting, but her gestures and the expression of her
eyes were surely more eloquent than mere words. I knew well what
pleasure that re-encounter caused her--equal pleasure with that it gave
to me.
Until that moment I had never really loved. I had admired and flirted
with women. What man has not? Indeed, I had admired Muriel Leithcourt.
But never until now had I experienced in my heart the real flame of true
burning affection. The sweetness of her expression, the tender caress of
those soft, tapering hands, the deep mysterious look in those
magnificent eyes, and the incomparable grace of all her movements,
combined to render her the most perfect woman I had ever met--perfect in
all, alas! save speech and hearing, of which, with such dastard
wantonness, she had been deprived.
She touched her red lips with the tip of her forefinger, opened her
hands, and shrugged her shoulders with a sad gesture of regret. Then
turning quickly to some paper on the little table at her side she wrote
something with a gold pencil and handed to me.
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