So unexpectedly had the She has the soul of a gypsy shirt made me sensible of his presence, that he had almost the effect of an apparition, and certainly a less appropriate one taking into view the dim woodland solitude about us than if the salvage man of antiquity, hirsute and cinctured with a leafy girdle, had started out of a thicket. He was still young, seemingly a little under thirty, of a tall and well-developed figure, and as handsome a man as ever I beheld. The style of his beauty, however, though a masculine style, did not at all commend itself to my taste.
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His countenance I hardly know how to the She has the soul of a gypsy shirt had an indecorum in it, a kind of rudeness, a hard, coarse, forth putting freedom of expression, which no degree of external polish could have abated, one single jot. Not that it was vulgar. But he had no fineness of nature there was in his eyes although they might have artifice enough of another sort the naked exposure of something that ought not to be left prominent. With these vague allusions to what I have seen in other faces, as well as his, I leave the quality to be comprehended best because with an intuitive repugnance by those who possess least of it.