In the
lady I saw before me, half reclining in a rocking-chair, there was
none of the stiffness and nicety. Habited in a loose gown of some easy,
flexible, but rich material, worn with that peculiarly indolent
slouch of the Mexican woman, Mrs. Saltillo had parted with half her
individuality. Even her arched feet and thin ankles, the close-fitting
boots or small slippers of which were wont to accent their delicacy,
were now lost in a short, low-quartered kid shoe of the Spanish type,
in which they moved loosely. Her hair, which she had always worn with a
certain Greek simplicity, was parted at one side. Yet her face, with
its regularity of feature, and small, thin, red-lipped mouth, was quite
unchanged; and her velvety brown eyes were as beautiful and inscrutable
as ever.
With the same glance I had taken in her surroundings, quite as
incongruous to her former habits. The furniture, though of old and heavy
mahogany, had suffered from careless alien hands, and was interspersed
with modern and unmatchable makeshifts, yet preserving the distinctly
scant and formal attitude of furnished lodgings.
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