Moreover, her mother had carefully arranged four, two on each side, to escape from the frill of her hood in front and fall softly over her pink cheeks.

Lucina's face was very fair and sweet--the face of a good and gentle little girl, who always minded her mother and did her daily tasks.
Her dark blue eyes, set deeply under seriously frowning childish brows, surveyed Jerome with innocent wonder; her pretty mouth drooped anxiously at the corners.

Jerome knew her well enough, although he had never before exchanged a word with her.

She was little Lucina Merritt, whose father had money and bought her everything she wanted, and whose mother rigged her up like a puppet, as he had heard his mother say.
"No, ain't sick," he said, in a half-intelligible grunt.

A cross little animal poked into wakefulness in the midst of its nap in the sun might have responded in much the same way.