PublicBookshelf Book Club
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
Meanwhile, Hector reached the opera, and made his way to the omnibus box
where he had his seat.
He felt he could not stand Morella Winmarleigh just yet. The second act
of "Faust" was almost over, and with his glass he swept the rows of
boxes in vain to find Theodora. He sat a few minutes, but restlessness
seized him. He must go to the other side and ascertain if she could be
discovered from there. Morella Winmarleigh's box commanded a good view
for this purpose, so after all he would face her.
He looked up at her opposite. She sat there with his mother, and she
seemed more thoroughly wholesomely unattractive than ever to him.
He hated that shade of turquoise blue she was so fond of, and those
unmeaning bits and bows she had stuck about. She was a large young woman
with a stolid English fairness.
Her hair had the flaxen ends and sandy roots one so often sees in those
women whose locks have been golden as children. It was a thin, dank kind
of hair, too, with no glints anywhere. Her eyes were blue and large and
meaningless and rather prominent, and her lightish eyelashes seemed to
give no shade to them.
Morella's orbs just looked out at you like the bow-windows of a sea-side
villa--staring and commonplace. Her features were regular, and her
complexion, if somewhat all too red, was fresh withal; so that,
possessing an income of many thousands, she passed for a beauty of