by George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) is a great novel. I should have read it when it was assigned in high school, but like youth, literature is wasted on the young.
In a nutshell, the plot describes Silas, the solitary weaver, and how he came to adopt an orphaned infant, and how that brought him out of his solitude to join in the life of the community.
Here’s a brief passage describing Silas and Eppie as they are sitting in church:
‘The weaver’s bent shoulders and white hair give him almost the look of advanced age, though he is not more than five-and-fifty; but there is the freshest blossom of youth close by his side – a blonde dimpled girl of eighteen, who has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet: the hair ripples as obstinately as a brooklet under the March breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the restraining comb behind and show themselves below the bonnet crown. Eppie cannot help being rather vexed about her hair, for there is no other girl in Raveloe who has hair at all like it, and she thinks hair ought to be smooth.
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