Withal she had
the figure of a girl, slender and supple, possessing the poetic
grace and poetry of movement born only in the Orient.
"Naida!" breathed Nicol Brinn, huskily. "Naida!"
His high voice had softened, had grown tremulous. He extended his
hands with a groping movement The woman laughed shudderingly.
Her cloak lying forgotten upon the carpet, she advanced toward
him.
She wore a robe that was distinctly Oriental without being in the
slightest degree barbaric. Her skin was strangely fair, and
jewels sparkled upon her fingers. She conjured up dreams of the
perfumed luxury of the East, and was a figure to fire the
imagination. But Nicol Brinn seemed incapable of movement; his
body was inert, but his eyes were on fire. Into the woman's face
had come anxiety that was purely feminine.
"Oh, my big American sweetheart," she whispered, and, approaching
him with a sort of timidity, laid her little hands upon his arm.
"Do you still think I am beautiful?"
"Beautiful!"
No man could have recognized the voice of Nicol Brinn. Suddenly
his arms were about her like bands of iron, and with a long,
wondering sigh she lay back looking up into his face, while he
gazed hungrily into her eyes. His lips had almost met hers when
softly, almost inaudibly, she sighed: "Nicol!"
She pronounced the name queerly, giving to i the value of ee, and
almost dropping the last letter entirely.
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