In the eyes of that poor lady the Chancellor's daughter had suddenly
assumed the aspect of some glittering, avenging fate. At last Lady Coryston
understood something of the power, the spell, there was in this girl
for whom her son had deserted her; at last she perceived, despairingly
perceived, her strange beauty. The long thin mouth, now breathing scorn,
the short chin, and prominent cheekbones denied Enid Glenwilliam any
conventional right indeed to that great word. But the loveliness of the
eyes and hair, of the dark brows, sustaining the broad and delicate
forehead, the pale rose and white of the skin, the setting of the head, her
wonderful tallness and slenderness, these, instinct as the whole woman
was, at the moment, with a passion of defiance, made of her a dazzling and
formidable creature. Lady Coryston beheld her father in her; she seemed to
feel the touch, the terror of Glenwilliam.
Bewilderment and unaccustomed weakness overtook Lady Coryston. It was some
moments before, under the girl's threatening eyes, she could speak at all.
Then she said, with difficulty:
"You may marry my son, Miss Glenwilliam--but you do not love him! That is
perfectly plain.
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