But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. I wanted the time with you. 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. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He arrived at 6:29 sharp on the night of the Junior Prom.
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