Leopoldina was twenty-seven. She was not tall‚ but she was considered to have the best figure of any woman in Lisbon. She always wore very close-fitting dresses that emphasised and clung to every curve of her body‚ with narrow skirts gathered in at the back. Men rolled their eyes and said: ‘She’s like a statue‚ a Venus!’ She had the full‚ softly rounded shoulders of an artist’s model; and one sensed‚ even beneath the bodice of her dress‚ that her breasts had the firm‚ harmonious form of two lovely lemon halves; the luscious‚ ample line of her hips and certain voluptuous movements of her waist attracted men’s lustful glances. Her face‚ though‚ was somewhat coarse; there was something too fleshly about her flared nostrils; and her fine skin‚ with its warm‚ olive glow‚ bore the marks of faded smallpox scars. Her greatest beauty lay in her intensely dark eyes‚ liquid and languid‚ and their very long lashes.
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