"At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Still keeping ahead of his pursuers, he ran along the direct road, till the houses disappeared and he got into the open country. ” She glanced shyly at the mirror above her dressing-table, and then about her at the furniture, as though it might penetrate to the thoughts that peeped in her mind. 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. At last—I told a story. White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference.
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