My curls, I mind,
tumbled forward thicker than those foppish French perukes.
"There is thy Uncle Kirke," whispers Nurse Tibbie. "Pay thy best
devoirs, Master Ramsay," and she pushes me to the fore of those
crowding up the docks.
A thin, pale man with a scarred face silently permitted me to salute
four limp fingers. His eyes swept me with chill disapproval. My hat
clapped on a deal faster than it had come off, for you must know we
unhatted in those days with a grand, slow bow.
"Thy Aunt Ruth," says Tibbie, nudging me; for had I stood from that day
to this, I was bound that cold man should speak first.
To my aunt the beaver came off in its grandest flourish. The pressure
of a dutiful kiss touched my forehead, and I minded the passion kisses
of a dead mother.
Those errant curls blew out in the wind.
"Ramsay Stanhope," begins my uncle sourly, "what do you with uncropped
hair and the foolish trappings of vanity?"
As I live, those were the first words he uttered to me.
"I perceive silken garters," says he, clearing his throat and lowering
his glance down my person. "Many a good man hath exchanged silk for
hemp, my fine gentleman!"
"An the hemp hold like silk, 'twere a fair exchange, sir," I returned;
though I knew very well he referred to those men who had died for the
cause.
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