He could not meet the despair of her eyes.
“Well?” she said.
“Well?” said Carrigan.
“I didn’t choose this face,” she explained sadly. “It was wished on me!”
Carrigan sank into a chair and looked upon her as a general looks over a field of battle and calculates the chances of his outnumbered army. His eyes fell to the slender feet in the shining bronze slippers, with the small, round ankles incased in pleasant green.
His heart leaped. His eyes raised and met the freckles. He clenched his hand.
“If it wasn’t for them freckles—”
“Yes?”
“I could see your face.”
Crimson went up her throat with delicate tints, blending the clear white of the breast with the brown of the round neck. He jumped to his feet: he pointed a commanding arm.