The Count of Monte Cristo

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mass of straight black hair, defying all attempts to train or curl
it, fell over his projecting forehead, and hung down to his shoulders,
giving increased vivacity to eyes already sparkling with a youthful love
of mischief and fondness for every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth
was large, and the lips, which had not yet regained their color,
were particularly thin; in fact, the deep and crafty look, giving a
predominant expression to the child's face, belonged rather to a boy of
twelve or fourteen than to one so young. His first movement was to free
himself by a violent push from the encircling arms of his mother, and to
rush forward to the casket from whence the count had taken the phial of
elixir; then, without asking permission of any one, he proceeded, in all
the wilfulness of a spoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims
or caprices, to pull the corks out of all the bottles.

"Touch nothing, my little friend," cried the count eagerly; "some of
those liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale."