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And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. 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 will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. Are you doing okay in that shirt? You seem uncomfortable. I expect company. ” “You’d like to do that?” “Exactly.
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