Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. During this period Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. 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. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed.
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