about nine in the morning
I would kill her first ! * * * * * I am convinced that she is no stay-at-home , but roams continually over the island : for thrice , wandering myself , I have come upon her . The first time she was running with flushed face , intent upon striking down a butterfly with a twig held in the left hand -LRB- for both hands she uses with dexterity -RRB- . It was at about nine in the morning , in her park , near the bottom where there are high grass-growths and ferny luxuriance between the close tree-trunks , and shadow , and the broken wall of an old funeral-kiosk sunk aslant under moss , creepers , and wild flowers , behind which I peeped hidden and wet with dew . She has had the assurance to modify the dress I put upon her , and was herself a butterfly , for instead of the shintiyan , she had on a zouave , hardly reaching to the waist , of saffron satin , no feredjé , but a scarlet fez with violet tassel , and baggy pantaloons of azure silk ; down her back the long auburn plait , quite neat , but all her front hair loose and wanton , the fez cocked backward , while I caught glimpses of her fugitive heels lifting out of the dropping slipper-sole . She is pretty clever , but not clever enough , for that butterfly escaped , and in one instant I saw her change into weary and sad , for on this earth is nothing more fickle than that Proteus face , which resembles a landscape swept with cloud-shadows on a bright day . Fast beat my heart that morning , owing to the consciousness that , while I saw , I was unseen , yet might be seen .