'I wonder whether he thinks me very ugly?' said Mary, with her hands
clasped upon her knees, her eyes fixed on Wetherlam, upon whose steep
brow a craggy mass of brown rock clothed with crimson heather stood out
from the velvety green of the hill-side.
'Who thinks you ugly?'
'Mr. Hammond. I'm sure he does. I am so sunburnt and so horrid!'
'But you are not ugly. Why, Molly, what are you dreaming about?'
'Oh, yes, I am ugly. I may not seem so to you, perhaps, because you are
used to me, but I know he must think me very plain compared with Lesbia,
whom he admires so much.'
'Yes, he admires Lesbia. There is no doubt of that.'
'And I know he thinks me plain,' said Molly, contemplating Wetherlam
with sorrowful eyes, as if the sequence were inevitable.
'My dearest girl, what nonsense! Plain, forsooth? Ugly, quotha? Why,
there are not a finer pair of eyes in Westmoreland than my Molly's, or a
prettier smile, or whiter teeth.'
'But all the rest is horrid,' said Mary, intensely in earnest. 'I am
sunburnt, freckled, and altogether odious--like a haymaker or a market
woman.
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