Her Faithful Knight — page 45: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Story of London. 4I She was a little taller than Dorothy and less regularly beautiful. Her pretty mouth, now all blurred with weep- ing, was far smaller than her sister’s, and the look of ap- pealing femininity, which now and then softened Miss Knight’s pure loveliness, was far more strongly empha- sized in Phyllis, her junior by one year. In complexion Phyllis was less fair, and her hair, by nature brown, had been dyed to a pale gold color, at variance with her dark eyebrows and eyelashes. Her dress was of black alpaca, ill-fitting and shabby in the extreme, and the cloak she was wearing was of the commonest black material, and wholly inappropriate for a day in June. Dorothy’s eyes noted these details with acute anxiety. As Phyllis stretched her arms above her head she caught sight of a thin line of gold on the third finger of her left hand. ~ : “You are married!” Something of reproach, but something of relief also, rang through Miss Knight’s tones. Nothing short of a tragic catastrophe could have transformed dimpled, co- quettish, laughing Phyllis into this worn and despairing woman. But there are sorrows and sorrows. If only it should prove that Phyllis had a bad husband, or that he was dead, it would be terrible, but “That wedding ring means nothing,” whispered Phyllis, faintly. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Dorothy. Only listen first before you judge me. Let me tell you every- thing from the beginning before my mind begins to wan- der, as it so often does now. And don’t go away from me. Sit here by me and hold me to you. Oh, Dolly! Dolly! Why did I ever leave you?” Dorothy wrapped her arms about her sister, and pil- lowed her cheek upon her heart. Her pharisaical instinct had been but momentary ; she was an intensely proud girl, boo to whom honor was far dearer than life, but she loved her | Commie “S (E@)