—Romeo and Juliet, II.ii.67 Charlotte blinked twice then yanked off her cap, taking with it the dull wig of mouse-brown hair. “Thank God. That filthy thing makes my head itch.” “I can well imagine,” I told her. “When did you realise it was me?” There seemed little point in withholding the truth. “In the bath this afternoon. I was thinking of how brave you were with poor old Crab, and it occurred to me how curious it was—that habit of ducking your head when you were spoken to. And that wig was so horrid, I could not believe anyone would be so unfortunate as to have such awful hair.” She laughed. “It is a fright. Fair killed my vanity to wear it,” she added, shaking out her own long, corn-gold hair. It shimmered like so much silk in the torchlight. “Really, with no better disguise that that dreadful wig, I cannot believe I was the only one to know you for who you are.”
