Looking at it more closely he saw that
the sprigs were bound together, not by thread or ribbon, but by long
filaments of soft brown hair tightly wound around them. He unwound a
single hair and held it to the light. Its length, color, texture,
and above all a certain inexplicable instinct, told him it was Cressy
McKinstry's. He laid it down quickly, as if he had, in that act,
familiarly touched her person.
He finished his letter, but presently found himself again looking at
the myrtle and thinking about it. From the position in which it had been
placed it was evidently intended for him; the fancy of binding it with
hair was also intentional and not a necessity, as he knew his feminine
scholars were usually well provided with bits of thread, silk, or
ribbon. If it had been some new absurdity of childish fashion introduced
in the school, he would have noticed it ere this. For it was this
obtrusion of a personality that vaguely troubled him. He remembered
Cressy's hair; it was certainly very beautiful, in spite of her
occasional vagaries of coiffure.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113