By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. Their doors stood open, and placards with big letters indicated the section assigned to each. Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. 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. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. I’ll be ready in a moment. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have occasioned this disturbance. .
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