"It's simply beautiful.

Put it down for him, Fanny, if he wants something to paint." Fanny would not, and yet she wanted to.
"Then I'll take it down myself," said the lad.
"Well, you can if you like," said Fanny.
And he carefully took the pins out of the knot, and the rush of hair, of uniform dark brown, slid over the humped back.
"What a lovely lot!" he exclaimed.
The girls watched.

There was silence.

The youth shook the hair loose from the coil.
"It's splendid!" he said, smelling its perfume.

"I'll bet it's worth pounds." "I'll leave it you when I die, Paul," said Fanny, half joking.
"You look just like anybody else, sitting drying their hair," said one of the girls to the long-legged hunchback.
Poor Fanny was morbidly sensitive, always imagining insults.