Her face and features were large and peculiarly frank in expression; upon her head was a very large hat.

When she spoke, it was with a loud staccato voice; her words fell after one another like hailstones in a storm, there was no breathing space between them.
'I want Mr.Saintou.' 'What may I have the pleasure of showing madame ?' 'Good gracious, I told you I wanted to be shown Mr.Saintou.Are you Mr.
Saintou?
None of your assistants for me; I want my hair cut.' The hairdresser laid his hand upon his heart, as though to point out his own identity.

He bowed, and as even at that age he was very stout, the effort of the bow caused his small eyes to shut and open themselves again.

There was nothing staccato about the manner of the hairdresser, he had carefully cultivated that address which he supposed would be most soothing to those who submitted themselves to his operations.
'Very well,' said the little lady, apparently satisfied with the identification, 'I want my hair cut.

It is like a sheaf of corn.