A silk handkerchief of deep
blood-red colour was bound round her head, not in the modern Gypsy
fashion, but more like an Oriental turban. From each ear was
suspended a massive ring of red gold. Round her beautiful, towering,
tanned neck was a thrice-twisted necklace of half-sovereigns and
amber and red coral. She looked me full in the face. Then came a
something in the girl's eyes the like of which I had seen in no
other Gypsy's eyes, though I had known well the Gypsies who used
to camp near Rington Manor, not far from Raxton, for my kinsman
Percy Aylwin, the poet, had lately fallen in love with Winnie's early
friend, Rhona Boswell. It was not exactly an 'uncanny' expression,
yet it suggested a world quite other than this. It was an expression
such as one might expect to see in a 'budding spae-wife,' or in a
Roman Sibyl. And whose expression was it that it now reminded me of?
But the remarkable thing was that this expression was intermittent;
it came and went like the shadows the fleeting clouds cast along the
sunlit grass. Then it was followed by a look of steady self-reliance
and daring.
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