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. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. The response of her body was enough that she lazily opened her eyes. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. “I gave your name. ’ At last.
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