had thought her, her bosom without its kerchief meagre or unformed, and her cheeks not painted either, but much burned by the July sun. Nor were her eyes black, as I had supposed, but a dark, clear grey with black lashes; and her unpowdered hair seemed to be a reddish-chestnut and scarce longer than my own, but more curly.
“Child,” I said, smiling at her, I know not why, “I have been searching for you ever since I first saw you — — ”
And: “What do you want of me?” said she, scarce moving her lips.
“A favour.”
“Best mount your cobbler’s mare and go a-jogging back, my pretty lad.”
The calm venom in her voice