But more, the birds of air, nay, grave owls (who stand in this metaphor for whiskered experience) thronged, dashing at the apparition of terrible splendour.
Was it her fault that she had a name in the world?
Mrs.Margaret Lovell's portrait hung in Edward's room.

It was a photograph exquisitely coloured, and was on the left of a dark Judith, dark with a serenity of sternness.

On the right hung another coloured photograph of a young lady, also fair; and it was a point of taste to choose between them.

Do you like the hollowed lily's cheeks, or the plump rose's?
Do you like a thinnish fall of golden hair, or an abundant cluster of nut-brown?
Do you like your blonde with limpid blue eyes, or prefer an endowment of sunny hazel?
Finally, are you taken by an air of artistic innocence winding serpentine about your heart's fibres; or is blushing simplicity sweeter to you?
Mrs.Lovell's eyebrows were the faintly-marked trace of a perfect arch.

The other young person's were thickish, more level; a full brown colour.