In
the midst of my dispair Jane asked for a Sandwitch and thus
releived my mind. I got her some cake and a bottle of cream from
the pantrey and she became more normle. She swore she had never
cared for Tom, he being not her style, as she had never loved
any one who had not black eyes.
"Nothing else matters, Bab," she said, holding out the
Sandwitch in a dramatic way. "I see but his eyes. If they are
black, they go through me like a knife."
"Blue eyes are true eyes," I observed.
"There is somthing feirce about black eyes," she said,
finishing the cream. "I feel this way. One cannot tell what
black eyes are thinking. They are a mystery, and as such they
atract me. Almost all murderers have black eyes."
"Jane!" I exclaimed.
"They mean passion," she muzed. "They are _strong_ eyes.
Did you ever see a black-eyed man with glasses? Never. Bab, are
you engaged to Tom?"
"Practicaly."
I saw that she wished details, but I am not that sort. I am
not the kind to repeat what has been said to me in the emotion
of Love. I am one to bury sentament deep in my heart, and have
therfore the reputation of being cold and indiferent.
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