She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much of the peculiar

disposition of our father. Her countenance was all expression; her eyes

were not dark, but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space after

space in their intellectual glance, and to feel that the soul which was

their soul, comprehended an universe of thought in its ken. She was pale

and fair, and her golden hair clustered on her temples, contrasting its

rich hue with the living marble beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little

consonant apparently with the refinement of feeling which her face

expressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with it. She was like one of

Guido's saints, with heaven in her heart and in her look, so that when you

saw her you only thought of that within, and costume and even feature were

secondary to the mind that beamed in her countenance.

Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor Perdita (for this was

the fanciful name my sister had received from her dying parent), was not

altogether saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and repulsive.

If she had been nurtured by those who had regarded her with affection, she

might have been different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want of

kindness with distrust and silence. She was submissive to those who held

authority over her, but a perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as

if she expected enmity from every one who approached her, and her actions

were instigated by the same feeling. All the time she could command she

spent in solitude. She would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and

scale dangerous heights, that in those unvisited spots she might wrap

herself in loneliness. Often she passed whole hours walking up and down the

The Last Man