How shocked and indignant the little girl looks! You must not be vexed, you loyal little woman, with Cousin Monica for telling the truth.
Papa was and will be ugly all his days.

Come, Austin, dear, tell her--is not it so ?' 'What! depose against myself! That's not English law, Monica.' 'Well, maybe not; but if the child won't believe her own eyes, how is she to believe me?
She has long, pretty hands--you have--and very nice feet too.

How old is she ?' 'How old, child ?' said my father to me, transferring the question.
She recurred again to my eyes.
'That is the true grey--large, deep, soft--very peculiar.

Yes, dear, very pretty--long lashes, and such bright tints! You'll be in the Book of Beauty, my dear, when you come out, and have all the poet people writing verses to the tip of your nose--and a very pretty little nose it is!' I must mention here how striking was the change in my father's spirit while talking and listening to his odd and voluble old Cousin Monica.

Reflected from bygone associations, there had come a glimmer of something, not gaiety, indeed, but like an appreciation of gaiety.