The sunlight shone generously upon her at that moment, and Olga Ratcliffe told herself for the hundredth time that this friend of hers was the loveliest girl she had ever seen.

Certainly her beauty was superb, of the Spanish-Irish type that is world-famous,--black hair that clustered in soft ringlets about the forehead, black brows very straight and delicate, skin of olive and rose, features so exquisite as to make one marvel, long-lashed eyes that were neither black nor grey, but truest, deepest violet.
"Don't look at me like that!" she said, with gay imperiousness.

"You pale-eyed folk have a horrible knack of making one feel as if one is under a microscope.

Your worthy uncle is just the same.

If I weren't so deeply in love with him, I might resent it.