She had rather have had black hair she thought the fairness of her gold curls insipid. She could not, however, admire her own beauty, which was of a type she was inclined to despise. She was a fine young woman, rather above the average height, and had been used for the past four years to hearing herself proclaimed a remarkably handsome girl. Miss Taverner was deep in the Traveller’s Guide, and agreed to this without raising her eyes from the closely printed page. Young Sir Peregrine yawned again, and observed that the new pair of wheelers, put in at Newark, were good-sized strengthy beasts, very different from the last pair, which had both of them been touched in the wind. Miss Taverner made no reply to this, but picked up a Traveller’s Guide from the seat beside her, and began to flutter the leaves over. “Lord, I don’t know! It was you who would go to London.” “How tedious it is to be sitting still for so many hours at a stretch!” she remarked. Miss Taverner withdrew her gaze from the landscape and addressed her companion, a fair youth who was lounging in his corner of the chaise somewhat sleepily surveying the back of the nearest post-boy. Newark was left behind and the post-chaise-and-four entered on a stretch of flat country which offered little to attract the eye, or occasion remark.
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