The exquisitely
aquiline features, the small black mustache, an indescribably proud
and high-bred ease and grace of manner and bearing, were oddly
exotic and even more oddly fascinating. His slenderness was as
strong as a tempered sword-blade, his quietness was trained power in
repose. And the hair of his head was so black that a purplish shadow
rested upon it, and so thick that one was minded of Absalom:
... in all Israel there was none to be so much praised as
Absalom for his beauty: from the sole of his foot to the
crown of his head there was no blemish in him.
And when he polled his head (for it was at every year's end
that he polled it: because the hair was heavy on him,
therefore he polled it:), he weighed the hair of his head at
two hundred shekels after the king's weight.
He was so vivid and so new to me that my whole being was breathless
with the wonder of him. I knew, of course, that he did not belong
to _my_ world at all. King's sons are for princesses, for those
human birds of paradise that flash, beautiful and fortunate, in
larger spheres than those prosaic paths trodden by a workaday woman
named Smith.
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