Crittenden - A Kentucky Story of Love and War by John Fox
page 67 of 183 (36%)
page 67 of 183 (36%)
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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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