One of the curious little phenomena of human intercourse is the
fact that now and again the outer personality of one with whom you
are daily familiar suddenly strikes you afresh, thus printing, as
it were, a new portrait on your mind. At varying intervals I had
received such portrait impressions of Betty, and I had stored them
in my memory. Another I received at this moment, and it is among
the most delectable. She was sitting with both elbows on the
table, her palms clasped and her cheek resting on the back of the
left hand. Her face was turned towards me. She wore a low-cut
black chiffon evening dress--the thing had mere straps over the
shoulders--an all but discarded vanity of pre-war days. I had
never before noticed what beautiful arms she had. Perhaps in her
girlhood, when I had often seen her in such exiguous finery, they
had not been so shapely. I have told you already of the softening
touch of her womanhood. An exquisite curve from arm to neck faded
into the shadow of her hair. She had a single string of pearls
round her neck. The fatigue of last week's night duty had cast an
added spirituality over her frank, sensitive face.
We had not spoken for a while.
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