She was
like some rare flower of the field, alert, gentle, strong, intrepid, with
buoyant face, brown hair, blue eyes and cream-like skin. She was touched
by a rose on each cheek and made womanly by firm and yet generous
breasts, tenderly imprisoned by the white chiffon of her blouse in which
was one bright sprig of the buds of a cherry-tree-a touch of modest
luxuriance on a person sparsely ornamented. It was not tropical, this
picture of Sheila Llyn; it was a flick of northern life in a summer sky.
It was at once cheerful and apart. It had no August in it; no oil and
wine. It was the little twig that grew by a running spring. It was
fresh, dominant and serene. It was Connemara on the Amazon! It was
Sheila herself, whom time had enriched with far more than years and
experience. It was a personality which would anywhere have taken place
and held it. It was undefeatable, persistent and permanent; it was the
spirit of Ireland loose in a world that was as far apart from Ireland as
she was from her dead, dishonoured father.
And Dyck? At first she felt she must fly to him--yes, in spite of the
fact that he had suffered prison for manslaughter.
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