She rose--she was short, and somewhat broadly built--and went to the window.
"He will be back," she said to herself, "in a few minutes now." She raised her hand to her forehead, and pressed back her hair with a little movement of impatience, expressive, perhaps, of a great suspense.
She stood idly drumming on the window-sill for a few moments; then, with a quick little sigh, she went back to the piano.

As she moved she gave a jerk of the head from time to time, as schoolgirls who have too much hair are wont to do.

The reason of this nervous movement was a wondrous plait of gold reaching far below her waist.

Catrina Lanovitch almost worshipped her own hair.

She knew without any doubt that not one woman in ten thousand could rival her in this feminine glory--knew it as indubitably as she knew that she was plain.