“Yes. Only your horror of a grandfather insisted on coming with me, so I had to wait for him to be ready and travel at his pace. . Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. That would be fun, eh?" "I wonder if you know how kind you are? You are like somebody out of a book. This is not what I want.
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