“Why,” repeated Jac dolorously, “was I tied to such a face?”
“You might as well be askin’,” said the voice, “how the colors are painted on a pinto.”
“Them colors never rub out.”
“Neither will your face.”
“It’s awful.”
“It is.”
She stood in front of the speckled mirror.
“There’s something wrong with the way I fix my hair,” she muttered.
It was tied so tightly that it pulled up the skin of her forehead and raised her eyebrows to a look of continual plaintiveness.
“There’s certainly something wrong with the way I do my hair!”