She was not like Blanche; for Blanche had a bright complexion, and a fine neck, and a noble bust, _et vera incessu patuit Dea_--a true goddess, that is, as far as the eye went.

She had a grand idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not reigned eighteen months at Creamclotted Hall before she knew all the mysteries of pigs and milk, and most of those appertaining to cider and green cheese.
Lucy had no neck at all worth speaking of,--no neck, I mean, that ever produced eloquence; she was brown, too, and had addicted herself in nowise, as she undoubtedly should have done, to larder utility.

In regard to the neck and colour, poor girl, she could not help herself; but in that other respect she must be held as having wasted her opportunities.

But then what eyes she had! Mrs.Pole was right there.
They flashed upon you, not always softly; indeed not often softly if you were a stranger to her; but whether softly or savagely, with a brilliancy that dazzled you as you looked at them.

And who shall say of what colour they were?
Green, probably, for most eyes are green--green or grey, if green be thought uncomely for an eye-colour.
But it was not their colour, but their fire, which struck one with such surprise.
Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette.