it held a frock and
petticoats and shoes and stockings, but also a length of reddish-brown hair, bound
like the tail of a pony or like a queer little whip. It was the hair that had been cut
from its owner''s head when she first came to the prison. ''She will be keeping it for a
hair-piece,'' said Miss Craven, ''for when she is let out. Much good, however, it will do
her] It is Chaplin—do
you know her? A poisoner, she was, and went almost to the rope. Why, her fine
red head will have turned quite grey, before she gets this back again!''
She closed the box and thrust it back, with a practised, peevish gesture; her
own hair, where it showed beneath her bonnet, was plain as mouse-fur. I
remembered then how I had seen the reception matron rubbing at the shorn
locks of Black-Eyed Sue the gipsy girl—and I had a sudden, unpleasant vision, of
her and Miss Craven whispering together over the severed tresses, or over a frock,
or the hat with the bird upon it: ''Try it on—why, who is to see you? How your young
man would admire you in that! And who will know who wore it last, four years
from now?''
The vision and the whispers were so vivid I found I had to turn and press my
fingers to my face to chase them away, and when I next looked at Miss Craven
she had moved on to another box, and was giving a snort of laughter at what she