They went in gently. The dancer was sitting on her bed. There was no colour in her skin save the saffron sprinkled into it by eastern blood. The face was oval, the eyebrows slanted a little up; black hair formed on her forehead a V reversed; her lips, sensuous but fine, showed a gleam of teeth. Her arms were crossed as though compressing the fire within her supple body. Her eyes, colour of Malaga wine, looked through and beyond the whitened walls, through and beyond her visitors, like the eyes of a caged leopard.
The Mother Superior spoke:
“What can we do for you, my daughter?”
The dancer shrugged.
“You suffer, my daughter. They tell me you do not pray. It is a pity.”
The dancer’s passing smile had the sweetness of something tasted, of a rich tune, a long kiss; she shook her head.
“One would not say anything to trouble you, my daughter; one feels pity for your suffering. One comprehends. Is there a book you would read; some wine you would like; in a word, anything which could distract you a little?”
The dancer clasped her hands behind her neck. The movement was beautiful, sinuous—all her body beautiful. A faint colour came into the Mother Superior’s waxen cheeks.
“Would you wish to dance for us, my daughter?”