The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets.
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