From Pictorial Review
"Your name!—Votre nom?" Crossman added, for in the North Country not many of the habitants are bilingual.
She looked at him and smiled slowly, her teeth white against cardinal-flower lips.
"Ma name? Aurore," she answered in a voice as mystically slow as her smile, while the mystery of her eyes changed and deepened.
Crossman watched her, fascinated. She was like no woman he had ever seen, radiating a personality individual and strange. "Aurore," he repeated. "You're not the dawn, you know; not a bit like it." He did not expect her to own to any knowledge of the legend of her name, but she nodded her head understandingly.
"It was the Curé name' me so," she explained. "But the Curé and me," she shrugged, "never could—how you say?—see—hear—one the other—so, I would not be a blonde just for spite to him—I am a very black dawn, n'est-ce pas?"
"A black dawn," he repeated. Her words unleashed his fancy—her heavy brows and lashes, her satiny raven hair, her slow voice that seemed made of silence, her eyes that changed in expression so rapidly that they dizzied one with a sense of space. "Black Dawn!" He stared at her long, which in no wise disconcerted her.
"Will you want, then, Antoine and me?" she asked at length.
He woke from his dream with a savage realization that, most surely, he wanted her. "Yes. Of course—you—and Antoine. Wait, attendez, don't go yet."
"Why not?" she smiled. "I have what I came for."