To say of a child that there is something "unearthly" about it is, as a rule, to pay a compliment to ethereal blue and gold.

There was nothing ethereal about Sarah, and yet she was unearthly enough.

Squatting on the floor, her legs tucked under her, her head thrust forward, her large black eyes staring at the wall, her black hair almost alive in the shining intensity of its colours, she had in her attitude the lithe poise of some animal ready to spring, waiting for its exact opportunity.
When her mother, in a temper, struck her, she would push her hair back from her face with a sharp movement of her hand and then would watch broodingly and cynically for the next move.

"You hit me again," she seemed to say, "and you _will_ make a fool of yourself." She was aware, of course, of a thousand influences in the house of which her mother and Hortense had never the slightest conception.

From the cosy security of her cradle she had watched the friendly spirit who had accompanied (with hostile irritation) her entrance into this world.
His shadow had, for a long period, darkened her nursery, but she repelled, with absolute assurance, His kindly advances.
"I'm not frightened.