Her complexion was fresh, almost ruddy, and her countenance
animated, and quick to register every play of feeling.
In manner, she was exceedingly agreeable, and had the happy art of
putting even strangers at ease. It was no matter of wonder to me, as
I said before, that Henry Wallingford should fall in love with Delia
Floyd. But I did wonder, most profoundly, when I became fully
assured, that she had, for a mere flash man, such as Ralph Dewey
seemed to me, turned herself away from Henry Wallingford.
But women are enigmas to most of us--I don't include you, dear
Constance!--and every now and then puzzle us by acts so strangely
out of keeping with all that we had predicated of them, as to leave
no explanation within our reach, save that of evil fascination, or
temporary loss of reason. We see their feet often turning aside into
ways that we know lead to wretchedness, and onward they move
persistently, heeding neither the voice of love, warning, nor
reproach. They hope all things, believe all things, trust all
things, and make shipwreck on the breakers that all eyes but their
own see leaping and foaming in their course.
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