Explore "Out Nights" by Oliver Optic on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Mrs. Prescott did not appear to be half so lonesome as she had pretended she was; for, as her little white hand delicately and daintily grasped the needle, the same involuntary smile played on her pretty lips that had been there while her husband was present.
Her thoughts must have been very pleasant, or she could not have worn that bewitching smile. Her soft, gazelle-like eye, too, beamed forth the language of a pure and beautiful soul -- a soul at rest among the flowers of its own tender rearing.