“You seem to forget that my sister is—married. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. I’m a female thing at bottom. Hers is quite the most exclusive set in London. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. ’ ‘Ah, that is good,’ sighed the lady. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face.
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