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"Stop that!" Gisella said, slapping his hand away. Holding her
wrap closed, she nearly tripped while scrambling backward up the steps
into the wagon.
"Where you get hair?" the gully dwarf spoke at last, not the
least put off by her slap. He leaned forward, his stubby fingers
reaching out. The silly grin on his smudgey face revealed that he had
a big, dark hole in his mouth where one front tooth should have been.
"What do you mean?" she snapped. "I grow it, of course!" She
slapped his hand again.
The gully dwarf shook his head stubbornly. "Not that hair. Hair
not come that color."
Gisella bristled. "I assure you, this is my natural hair," she
said staunchly, giving him an appraising glance. "I might add that
yours would look better if you washed it instead of ripping it out in
clumps."
The gully dwarf smiled up at her hair. "It pretty. You pretty."
Gisella's eyes shifted. "You like it?"
"It pretty," he repeated reverently. The crowd of gully dwarves
chorused his words, then giggled.
"Thank you," Gisella said hesitantly. "Your hair ain't so bad,
either," she added generously.
"Should I get rid of them now for you, Miss Hornslager?" Woodrow
asked.
"I've been meaning to ask you about your hair myself,"
Tasslehoff chimed in. "Is it real -- the color, I mean? Personally, I
see nothing wrong with a little cosmetic overhaul. Why, once, when I
was younger, I drew some lines on my face because I was embarrassed
that I had no wrinkles yet
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