![]() ![]() The dress set off to perfection the seventeen-inch waist, the smallest in three counties, and the tightly fitting basque showed breasts well matured for her sixteen years. Her new green flowered-muslin dress spread its twelve yards of billowing material over her hoops and exactly matched the flat-heeled green morocco slippers her father had recently brought her from Atlanta. Seated with Stuart and Brent Tarleton in the cool shade of the porch of Tara, her father’s plantation, that bright April afternoon of 1861, she made a pretty picture. ![]() ![]() Above them, her thick black brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique line in her magnolia-white skin-that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgia suns. Her eyes were pale green without a touch of hazel, starred with bristly black lashes and slightly tilted at the ends. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw. ![]() In her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her florid Irish father. SCARLETT O’HARA WAS NOT BEAUTIFUL, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. ![]()
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