"Don't cry, Miss Craydocke," said Sin Saxon, changing suddenly to the
most touching tone and expression of regretful concern. "I didn't mean
to distress you. I don't think anything is really the matter with my
brain!"
"But I'll tell you what it is," she went on presently, in her old
manner, "I _am_ in a dreadful way with that waterfall, and I wish you'd
lend me one of your caps, or advise me what to do. It's an awful thing
when the fashion alters, just as you've got used to the last one. You
can't go back, and you don't dare to go forward. I wish hair was like
noses, born in a shape, without giving you any responsibility. But we do
have to finish ourselves, and that's just what makes us restless."
"You haven't come to the worst yet," said Miss Craydocke significantly.
"What do you mean? What is the worst? Will it come all at once, or will
it be broken to me?"
"It will be broken, and _that_'s the worst. One of these years you'll
find a little thin spot coming, may be, and spreading, over your
forehead or on the top of your head; and it'll be the fashion to comb
the hair just so as to show it off and make it worse; and for a while
that'll be your thorn in the flesh.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144