Explore "The Survivor" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
At first he scarcely recognised her. He had seen her last in furs, to-day she seemed like a delicate dream of Springtime. She wore a white spotless muslin gown, whose exquisite simplicity had been the triumph of a French artiste. Her hat, large and drooping, was a vision of pink roses and soft creamy lace. There was a dainty suggestion of colour about her throat -- only the sunlight seemed to discover when she moved the faint glinting green beneath the transparent folds of her gown.
She came over to Douglas with outstretched hands, and he was bewildered, for she had not smiled upon him like this once during that long journey to London.