Darrell's eyes were of that clear gray which it is difficult to distinguish from blue by day and black at night; and his rich brown hair, which he could not consent to part with, even on the promise of a new and modish peruke from his adoptive father, fell in thick glossy ringlets upon his shoulders; whereas Jack's close black crop imparted the peculiar bullet-shape we have noticed, to his head. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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