Publisher's Synopsis
To the eyes of a man viewing it from behind, the nut-brown hair was a wonder and amystery. Under the black beaver hat, surmounted by its tuft of black feathers, the longlocks, braided and twisted and coiled like the rushes of a basket, composed a rare, ifsomewhat barbaric, example of ingenious art. One could understand such weavings andcoilings being wrought to last intact for a year, or even a calendar month; but that theyshould be all demolished regularly at bedtime, after a single day of permanence, seemed areckless waste of successful fabrication.And she had done it all herself, poor thing. She had no maid, and it was almost the onlyaccomplishment she could boast of. Hence the unstinted pains.She was a young invalid lady-not so very much of an invalid-sitting in a wheeled chair, which had been pulled up in the front part of a green enclosure, close to a bandstand, where a concert was going on, during a warm June afternoon. It had place in one of theminor parks or private gardens that are to be found in the suburbs of London, and was theeffort of a local association to raise money for some charity. There are worlds withinworlds in the great city, and though nobody outside the immediate district had ever heardof the charity, or the band, or the garden, the enclosure was filled with an interestedaudience sufficiently informed on all thes
