A riding-habit is all I have seen. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me.
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