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. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. For a moment she remained silent. The Night-Cellar. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. You may perceive harmony, proportion, rhythm, intensely.
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