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Crittenden - A Kentucky Story of Love and War by John Fox
page 67 of 183 (36%)
and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little.

"Yes," she said, gently. "And I think you are just tall enough."

In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could
just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of
motherliness--no more--and Crittenden understood and was grateful.

"Go home now," she said.




VII


At Tampa--the pomp and circumstance of war.

A gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls
and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps
to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one
and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire
aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés--English, German, Swedish,
Russian, Prussian, Japanese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican
eye; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans--little and big, war-like, with the
tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans
Cuban senoritas--refugees at Tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of
manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present,
omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings
of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists,
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