See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. . She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world.
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