Explore "Stolen Idols" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Mr. Johnson was genuinely surprised at the expression in his companion's face when, at the end of that drive home through the drowsy afternoon, she put out her hand to wish him good-by. He forgot her shabby little black lace hat with its two rather battered red roses, her scratched and mended gloves, the thin ready-made wrap around her linen frock. She was no longer a sulky, tired, young woman. For a single moment she was beautiful.
"You have given me quite a wonderful afternoon, Mr. Johnson," she said, "and I am ashamed of myself for having been so quiet all the way home. I am afraid I must have seemed almost ungracious. I wasn't. I was just enjoying it all, and -- thank you!"