Queer fancy, he thought, for one
girl to cherish the tresses of another. Suddenly he was struck by an
idea that sent the blood throbbing to his temples. He examined the
tress a second time. The bright hair growing upon his sister's head he
knew had a reddish tinge, and its silky length terminated in ring-like
curls. This was short and straight, of a pale colour, and showed by
its unevenness that it had been "shingled." His heart beat as though
it would burst. "You must take this back to its owner," he said
imperatively.
Wanda slipped her hand in his. "We will go together," she said.
He glanced at her bare feet and ruined raiment, and realized with a
burning flush that he was thoroughly ashamed of her. No, he could not
take the hand of his future wife and face that crowd of curious
worldlings. The mere touch of her soiled fingers was repugnant to him.
She seemed like some coarse weed, whose vivid hues he might admire in
passing, but which he would shrink from wearing on his person.
"It will be better for you to go alone," he replied. "Don't tell the
lady that anyone beside yourself has seen the locket.
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