Mrs. Pryor gently disengaged the braid, drawing out a tiny locket--a slight thing it was, such as it suited her small purse to purchase. Under its crystal face appeared a curl of black hair, too short and crisp to have been severed from a female head.
Some agitated movement occasioned a twitch of the silken chain. The sleeper started and woke. Her thoughts were usually now somewhat scattered on waking, her look generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it is; I never show it."

Mrs. Pryor gently freed the braid, drawing out a tiny locket. Under its crystal face appeared a curl of short black hair.
With an agitated movement, the sleeper started and woke. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell anyone whose hair it is; I never show it."
