Both had alike a fair, brilliant complexion, and beautiful blue eyes.

I do not know whether Susanna at that time was tall or short for her age--I only know I thought her at least of the same height as myself, though she must really have been half a head shorter; the difference was probably made up by my admiration.
I remember her, as she went to church on Sundays with her mother, a little, pale, soberly-clad, busy woman, who was always, except on Sunday mornings, knitting a long, dreary stocking.

Susanna walked along the sand-strewn path to church in a white or blue dress, with a dark shepherdess hat on her head, a little white pocket-handkerchief folded behind a very large old hymn-book, and white stockings, and shoes with a band crossed over the instep.

I did not think there could be a prettier costume in the world than Susanna's Sunday dress.
In church the minister's family sat in the first pew, right under the pulpit, and we--my father and I--a few pews behind; and we children exchanged many a Freemason's sign, intelligible only to ourselves.
But once Susanna wounded me deeply, even to bitter tears.

It became evident to me that she had made my father the subject of one of her lively remarks.