Then I looked about more
carefully, and saw a dozen photographs of a woman, sometimes alone,
sometimes holding a pretty child, and the faces were the faces I had
seen in the victoria. I feigned not to have seen them; but Larry, who
had watched me, said:
"Look again, Bob; for that is the woman you saw in the carriage, and
that is the child."
So I took up a photograph and looked at it long. The face had something
more dangerous than beauty in it--the face of a Cleopatra with a look in
the deep restless eyes I did not fancy; but I did not tell that to Larry
Moore. Then I put it back in its place and turned and said gravely:
"Are you sure that you want to tell me, Larry Moore?"
"I do," he said. "Sit down."
He did not seek preliminaries, as I should have done, but began at once,
simply and directly--doubtless he was retelling the story more to
himself than to me.
"She was called Fanny Montrose," he said, "a slip of a girl, with
wonderful golden hair, and big black eyes that made me tremble, the day
I went into the factory at Bridgeport, the day I fell in love.
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