See that
muscled curve of the back! It's Estrellita's."
"How tall would you say?" his wife queried.
"There she deceives," was the appraised answer. "She might be
five-feet-one, or five-feet-three or four. It's that way she has
of walking that you described as almost about to fly."
"Yes, that's it," Mrs. Patterson concurred. "It's her energy, her
seemingness of being on tip toe with rising vitality."
Stanley Patterson considered for a space.
"That's it," he enounced. "She IS a little thing. I'll give her
five-two in her stockings. And I'll weigh her a mere one hundred
and ten, or eight, or fifteen at the outside."
"She won't weigh a hundred and ten," his wife declared with
conviction.
"And with her clothes on, plus her carriage (which is builded of
her vitality and will), I'll wager she'd never impress any one with
her smallness."
"I know her type," his wife nodded. "You meet her out, and you
have the sense that, while not exactly a fine large woman, she's a
whole lot larger than the average. And now, age?"
"I'll give you best there," he parried.
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