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Later, when the night closed in, he called Emily to him, pushed her hair back and, kissing her forehead, said: "Now go to bed, little Frowsy-head. The painter will stay with me." I filled his pipe, threw some dry driftwood in the stove, and drew my chair nearer. He tried to smoke for a moment, but laid his pipe down.
These changes angered many and there were frequent rebellions against the king, but he put them all down, and year after year came nearer the goal of his ambition. And his hair continued to grow uncut and uncombed, and got to be such a tangled mass that men called him Harold Lufa, or Frowsy-Head. There was one great and proud family, the Rafnistas, who were not easily to be won.
Soon Emily crept back and slipped one hand around her grandfather's neck. "Do you think you can ever do that, little Frowsy-head?" he said, pointing to my sketch. I looked up. His face was as serene and sunny as that of the child beside him. Gradually I came to know these people better. I never could tell why, our tastes being so dissimilar.
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