“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. ’ ‘Only because you did not tell me entirely the story? That is silly. But you—you have a good face. 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. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. “I suppose delusions are not uncommon to patients in his condition. And we won’t make it so. That had shut him up for a while. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. “It’s—private. Jackson. At last she was roused. CHAPTER II.
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