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. I suppose we’re all human beings really, but what price the sacred Institution of the Family! Us as a bundle! Eh?. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals.
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