Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. "Thank Heaven! I'm not basely born. “You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. She crushed the letter in her hand. Little by little, she stopped hating him. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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