Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. My profession has hardened me. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger. The doctor's smile is singular; there is no other smile that reaches the same level. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. I should only disappoint you terribly some day. I bear the marks of some of them about me still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver.
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