Then they shook hands with a curious cordiality.
Amy Waring had dark eyes--not round and hard and black--not ebony eyes, but soft, sympathetic eyes, in which you expect to see images as lovely as the Eastern traveler sees when he remembers home and looks in the drop held in the palm of the hand of the magician's boy.

They had the fresh, unworn, moist light of flowers early in June mornings, when they are full of sun and dew.

And there was the same transparent, rich, pure darkness in her complexion.

It was not swarthy, nor black, nor gloomy.
It did not look half Indian, nor even olive.

It was an illuminated shadow.
The two girls--they were women, rather--went together to a sofa and sat down.