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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"

I tell you simple truths. I am a
disinterested critic, you see, and stand apart gazing upon women simply
as specimens. Your hands and feet are models, your smile enchanting,
your voice musical, your manner witchery itself, when you choose to let
out your nature; what more could heart desire?" and he gazed steadily in
my face, insolently I felt it!
I had been listening indignantly to this cool summary of my attractions,
and the arrogant idea manifestly uppermost, that Sultan Claude Bainrothe
had only to appear on the scene, and throw his handkerchief, for me to
succumb, and I had been so confounded by this tirade of compliment and
commonplace that I scarcely knew how to stay its tide without absolute
rudeness, such as no lady should ever be guilty of--when he coolly
continued his remarks as if wholly unobservant of my displeasure.
"Evelyn, with all her arts, is a little faded already; don't you see it,
Miriam? There is no corrosive poison equal to envy, and that, by-the-by,
is her specialty. She is bitterly envious by nature. Most of those
thin-lipped, sharp-elbowed, sharp-nosed women are, if you observe.
Faded at twenty-three! Sad, but true of half our American morning-glory
beauties. For my part, I love the statuesque in women, the enduring!
those exquisitely-moulded proportions on which the gaze reposes with
such delight, and that set a man to dreaming, whether he will or not.


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