This keen sense of hearing had long been a peculiar bond between
them. To her father, Deborah's voice was the most distinctive part of her,
for often as he listened the memory came of her voice as a girl,
unpleasant, hurried and stammering. But she had overcome all that. "No
grown woman," she had declared, when she was eighteen, "has any excuse for
a voice like mine." That was eleven years ago; and the voice she had
acquired since, with its sweet magnetic quality, its clear and easy
articulation, was to him an expression of Deborah's growth. As she took off
her coat and hat in the hall she said, in the same low tone as before,
"Edith has been here, I suppose--"
"Yes--"
"I'm so sorry I missed her. I tried to get home early, but it has been a
busy night."
Her voice sounded tired, comfortably so, and she looked that way as she
came in. Though only a little taller than Edith, she was of a sturdier
build and more decided features. Her mouth was large with a humorous droop
and her face rather broad with high cheekbones. As she put her soft black
hair up over her high forehead, her father noticed her birthmark, a faint
curving line of red running up from between her eyes. Imperceptible as a
rule, it showed when she was tired. In the big school in the tenements
where she had taught for many years, she gave herself hard without stint to
her work, but she had such a good time through it all.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28