"I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely terrified. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. “You vixen!” said Mr. Mr. 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. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. After all, I fancy that I shall have to apply for a situation as a nursery governess who understands French.
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