The lips were human, womanly, pure and tender, but
not formed for speech of prayer alone. The drooping lids, not drawn,
but darkened with faint, uneven shadows by the flow of many tears, were
slowly lifted now and again, disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant
for endless weeping, nor made so deep and warm only to strain their
sight towards heaven above, forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that
those same eyes could gleam, and flash, and blaze, with love and hate
and anger, that under the rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb
with the changing tide of the heart, that the warm lips could part
with passion and, moving, form words of love. She saw pride in the wide
sensitive nostrils, strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity in
the perfect poise of the head upon the slender throat. And the clasped
hands were womanly, too, neither full and white and heavy like those
of a marble statue, as Unorna's were, nor thin and over-sensitive like
those of holy women in old pictures, but real and living, delicate in
outline, but not without nervous strength, hands that might linger in
another's, not wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of a
loving touch.
It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt
something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so
much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom where
she longed to reign.
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