" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. Little by little, she stopped hating him. I want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like. Mr. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. “It is possible,” Courtlaw said, “that you too were deceived.
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