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. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. They ought to put a lamp. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks. Don’t stand gawping, man. “I wrote it for you.
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