There now—I told you so—you be uncle George, baint you?
Yes dear—but who are you—you little wayward imp, with such a smutty face and such ragged hair ... poh, poh ... poh ... what are you afraid of?
O father, father! he’s got me! he’s got me!
Well—there, there—if you don’t like to stay with me, go to your father....
Why ... what a funny Shape it is father—if it is a shape.
I don’t believe your hair has been combed for a twelvemonth.
O but it has though....
It is no fault of ours, my friend, said her father, delighted to see her at the knee of Burroughs. We do all we can, but the more we scrub, the more we may; the more we wash, the dirtier and blacker she grows, and the more we comb, the rougher looks her beautiful hair ... it was beautiful indeed a year ago—
It was like spun gold when I left you.
—But she is no longer the same Abigail Paris that you knew—