Immediately St.George stepped quietly down among the women already fluttering the leaves of their hymn books, and sat beside the mulatto woman.
Her eyes met his in eager questioning, but she had that temper of unsurprise of many of the eastern peoples and of some animals.

Yet she was under some strong excitement, for her hands, large but faultlessly modeled, were pressed tensely together.

And St.George saw that she was by no means a mulatto, or of any race that he was able to name.

Her features were classic and of exceeding fineness, and her face was sensitive and highly-bred and filled with repose, like the surprising repose of breathing arrested in marble.

There was that about her, however, which would have made one, constituted to perceive only the arbitrary balance of things, feel almost afraid; while one of high organization would inevitably have been smitten by some sense of the incalculably higher organization of her nature, a nature which breathed forth an influence, laid a spell--did something indefinable.