Capitolo 35
it doesn't have to take nothing for granted against the other lady."
I produced the photo. "What does it do of that?" I asked. "_I_
a honest face thinks him/it, me that I can tell him."
You scrutinized him/it long and from near with a magnifier. Then she put her/it
you very intentionally lead on a side and mused. "Madeline Shaw gave her/it for me
you photograph the other day, and tells me, as she gave him/it, 'I like this way
these modern portraits; they shows what would Have been.'"
"You mean them they are touched so a lot on!"
"Precisely. What, as it is standing, it is a sweet face, innocent--a honest
girl's face--almost childish in his/her transparency but... innocence has
all has put in him from the photographer."
"Does he/she think this way?"
"I know him/it. You look here only at those lines visible on the cheek. Them
disappears, in any place, to impossible angles. And the angles of that mouth.
They could not go so, with that nose and those crinkles. The thing is
not true. You/he/she has atrociously been compiled. Part is nature; the part, the
photographer; part, even possibly varnish and dust."
"But the fundamental face?"
"It is a minx."
I gave her the letter. "This neighbor?" I asked, while mending my eyes on her as
she looked.
You read him/it through. For one minute or two she examined him. "The letter
enough" you/he/she is corrected, she responded, after a second reading, "although his/her
naïve simplicity is, perhaps, under the circumstances, only a leetle
exaggerated; but the writing--the writing is same doubleness: a
astute hand, serpentine, any frankness or the honesty in him. Depends on him,
that girl is playing a double game."
"Does he/she believe, is there then, character in to write by hand?"
"Undoubtedly; when we know the character, we can see him/it in the writing.
Difficulty is, to see him/it and to read him/it before we know him/it to us; and me
you/he/she has practised a small to that. There is character in everybody that we do, of
course--our walk, our cough, the a lot of wave of our hands; the only secret