“Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn.
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