I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted.
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