He pushed aside the blue glass powder-box, the vial of brilliantine and the brushes.

Vjera untied the bit of faded ribband herself and opened the package.

The contents exhaled a faint, sickly odour.
A tress of beautiful hair, of unusual length and thickness, lay in the paper.

The colour was that which is now so much sought after, and which great ladies endeavour to produce upon their own hair, when they have any, by washing it with extra-dry champagne, while little ladies imitate them with a humble solution of soda.

The colour in question is a reddish-brown with rich golden lights in it, and it is very rare in nature.
The barber eyed the thick plait with a businesslike expression.
"The colour is not so bad," he remarked, as though suggesting that it might have been very much better.
"Surely, it is very beautiful hair!" said Vjera, her heart almost breaking at the sight of the tenderly treasured heirloom.
Suddenly the man snuffed the odour, lifted the tress to his nose, and smelt it.