The skill of no Parisian _coiffeur_ could produce a result so pleasing as the profusion of raven hair, that _would_ roll itself into ringlets.

Octoroons! He repeated the word to himself, but it did not disenchant him.

It was merely something foreign and new to his experience, like Spanish or Italian beauty.

Yet he felt painfully the false position in which they were placed by the unreasoning prejudice of society.
Though he had had a fatiguing day, when he entered his chamber he felt no inclination to sleep.

As he slowly paced up and down the room, he thought to himself, "My good mother shares the prejudice.