CHAPTER VIII
The Diva shows her Cards
"Ah, Signor Marchese," she said, with a sweet, but somewhat sad,
smile, extending to him a long, white, slender, nervous-looking,
ungloved hand, but not otherwise moving from her position. "Ah,
Signor Marchese, then I am not to be disappointed this evening? I
was beginning almost to fear that the fates were against me."
He advanced to the head of the sofa and took her hand, and held it
awhile, while he continued to stand there looking down from behind
her shoulder on the beautiful form as it lay there beneath his gaze-
-on the parting of the rich golden hair; on the snowy forehead; on
the still whiter neck; on the gentle heaving of the bosom beneath
its light veil of scarlet silk; on the tapering waist; on the
exquisitely-formed feet peeping in their black satin bottines from
beneath the extremity of her dress! It was all perfect: and the
Marchese held the soft warm hand that served as a conductor to the
stream of magnetic poison that seemed to flood his whole being as he
gazed.
For an instant all the room seemed to swim round with him. The blood
rushed to his brow. He shut his eyes, and a nervous crispation
caused the fingers of his hands to close themselves with such force,
that the grasp of that which held her little palm hurt her.
"Ah, my hand! you hurt my hand!" she said.
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