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Updated: June 9, 2025
Having gone thus far, loth, very loth, was I to lose my prize once more I got hold of the rumpled-up letter! Impudent man! were her words: stamping again. For God's sake, then it was. I let go my prize, lest she should faint away: but had the pleasure first to find my hand within both hers, she trying to open my reluctant fingers.
"If you've more than one gray hair you've gray hairs," said our man. "I have eleven." He ducked down his nice, dark, rumpled-up head for us to look, but I must say I couldn't see more than one little one all buried among the black. "You're grown up, but you're not old at all," I said. "We've been imagining you as an aged old man with a long white beard."
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