CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. "What did you say to him?" inquired Jonathan, suspiciously. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. ‘Alors, you make a game with me, I see that. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing.
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