Mon Dieu! it is not red.

Holy Mary! it is the colour of the sun.

Mon Dieu, what hair!' As he untwined the masses, it fell over the long bib, over the high chair, down till it swept the floor, in one unbroken flood of light.
'Wash it, and cut it, and let me go home to make my father's dinner,' said the quick voice with decision.

'My father is the baker round the corner, and he takes his dinner at two.' 'Is it that mademoiselle desires the ends cut ?' asked the hairdresser, resuming his professional manner.
'Which ends ?' 'Which ends ?' he exclaimed, baffled.

'Mon Dieu! these ends,' and he lifted a handful of the hair on the floor and held it before the eyes of the girl.
'Good Heavens, no! Do you think I am going to pay you for cutting those ends?
It's the ends at the top I want cut.