As the girl
looked up at him he noted, as he had done many times already in the
short two weeks he had known her, the peculiar, gipsy-like beauty of her
face. It was a beauty of which she herself, he had occasion to believe,
was absolutely unconscious, and in this he was right.
Charlotte disliked her dark skin, despised her black curls, and
considered her vivid colouring a most undesirable inheritance. She
admired intensely Celia's blonde loveliness, and lost no chance of
privately comparing herself with her sister, to Celia's infinite
advantage.
"Doctor Churchill," she said, as he approached her, hat in hand, "I was
very rude to you just now. I am--sorry."
She held out her hand. Doctor Churchill took it. Charlotte's thick black
lashes swept her cheek, and she did not see the look, half-laughing,
half-sympathetic, which rested on her downcast face.
"It's all right," said Doctor Churchill's low, clear voice. "Don't think
I fail to understand what it means for the cares of a household like
this to descend upon a girl's shoulders. But I want you to know that
I--that they are all immensely pleased with the pluck you are showing.
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