Her slim figure seemed born to the saddle, and her nerve was as yet
unshaken.
The man who had engaged her had been more than a little astonished at
the composure with which she showed off the horses' paces, and went
through various tricks. As she was young and inexperienced, he would
get her cheaply; she could be taught all the stereotyped acts with very
little trouble, and her morbid style of beauty would be a draw in Spain.
There was nothing of the English miss about her appearance and few
people would have believed her to be only twenty-four. She had no
freshness, no _beaute de diable_. Her beauty was that of line and
modelling. Her quietness was partly the result of a convent education.
An old Irish nun had told her once that good looks were a snare and a
delusion of the Devil, and that hers would never bring her happiness.
At least they had got her an engagement, and a circus had always
represented to her the very height of romance.
She wondered how she could manage for money till she got her five
pounds next Friday. It was lucky that all her habits, and so on, were
provided by the management.
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