She caught it up in one hand and knotted it all again at the back of her head in a minute.
"It's lovely, isn't it ?"--she said, quite simply--"I should think it lovely if I saw it on anybody else's head, or cut off hanging in a hair-dresser's shop window.

I don't admire it because it's mine, you know! I admire it as hair merely." "Hair merely--yes, I see!" And he bent and twisted the osiers in his hands with a sudden vigour that almost snapped them.

He was thinking of certain women he had known in London--women whose tresses, dyed, waved, crimped and rolled over fantastically shaped "frames," had moved him to positive repulsion,--so much so that he would rather have touched the skin of a dead rat than laid a finger on the tinted stuff called "hair" by these feminine hypocrites of fashion.

He had so long been accustomed to shams that the open sincerity of the Weircombe villagers was almost confusing to his mind.

Nobody seemed to have anything to conceal.
Everybody knew, or seemed to know, all about everybody else's business.
There were no bye-roads or corners in Weircombe.