Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill.
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