He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. "There!" she cried, laughing, "that'll teach you to lay hands upon me again. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is.
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