midnight
A pitcher , sweating cold drops , and a glass stood on a fragile stand . In a willow rocker , reading a newspaper , sat Alvarita . Spanish , you would say ; Andalusian , or , better still , Basque ; that compound , like the diamond , of darkness and fire . Hair , the shade of purple grapes viewed at midnight . Eyes , long , dusky , and disquieting with their untroubled directness of gaze . Face , haughty and bold , touched with a pretty insolence that gave it life . To hasten conviction of her charm , but glance at the stacks of handbills in the corner , green , and yellow , and white .