His deep eyes glowed upon her.
“You have sold your hair?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered; “to pay my debts. ’Twas your letter decided me.”
“At a thousand pounds?”
“At a hundred.”
Then she added, as if irresistibly, because she was still little more than a child, “And now, sir, how is the boaster vindicated? But your oath, I perceive, still goes beardless.”
“Within the hour only,” said he; and, thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out the long tresses of the Fair With Golden Hair.
She stared, amazed a moment; then threw herself upon her knees by a chair, weeping and crying out—
“O, I hate you, I hate you!”
He strode, and stood over her.