You brush the hair straight up the back of the head, gather it
together and tie a little bit of black shoestring around it, then you
twist the hair into a roll and spread it high, pinning it down on each
side of the head. _And don't forget the little curls on the left side!_
I hope I have enough hair, but if it hasn't grown long enough, you
know where those switches are that I had made when I first bobbed my
hair.... You won't mind touching me when I'm dead, will you, Lydia? I do
love you.... Nita.'"
Dundee was silent for a minute after he had finished reading the strange
note and had returned it to the envelope, along with the will. At last,
speaking against a lump in his throat, he broke in on the desolate
sobbing of Nita's maid:
"Lydia, how old was your mistress?"
"You won't put it in the papers, will you?" Lydia pleaded. "She--she
was--thirty-three. But not a soul knew it except me--"
"And will you tell me how old the royal blue velvet dress is?" he
continued. "Also, how long since girls dressed their hair in a French
roll?"
"The dress is twelve or thirteen years old," Lydia said, her voice dull
now with grief. "I know, because I used to do dressmaking during the
war. And it was during the war that girls wore their hair that way--I
did mine in a Psyche knot, but the French roll was more stylish.
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