She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand.
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