Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when
caught by hercharm as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too
sharply blended the delicatefeatures of her mother, a Coast aristocrat
of French descent, and the heavy ones ofher florid Irish father. But it
was an arresting face, pointed of chin; square of jaw.Her eyes were pale
green without a touch of hazel, starred with bristly black lashesand
slightly tilted at the ends. Above them, her thick black brows slanted
upward,cutting a startling oblique line in her magnoliawhite skin that
skin so prized bySouthern women and so carefully guarded with bonnets,
veils and mittens againsthot Georgia suns.Seated with Smart and Brent
Tarleton in the cool shade of the porch of Tara, herfather's plantation,
that bright April afternoon of 1861, she made a pretty picture.Her new
green floweredmuslin dress spread its twelve yards of billowing
materialover her hoops and exactly matched the flatheeled green morocco
slippers herfather had recently brought her from Atlanta. The dress set
off to perfection theseventeeninch waist, the smallest in three
counties, and the tightly fitting basqueshowed breasts well matured for
her sixteen years. But for all the modesty of herspreading skirts, the
demureness of hair netted smoothly into a chignon and thequietness of
small white hands folded in her lap, her true self was poorly
concealed.The green eyes in the carefully sweet face were turbulent,
willful, lusty with life,distinctly at variance with her decorous
demeanor. Her manners had been imposedupon her by her mother's gentle
admonitions and the sterner discipline of hermammy; her eyes were her
own.On either side of her, the twins lounged easily in their chairs,
squinting at thesunlight through tall mintgarnished glasses as they
laughed and talked, their longlegs, booted to the knee and thick with
saddle muscles, crossed negligently.Nineteen years old, six feet two
inches tall, long of bone and hard of muscle, withsunb
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