ToC If there is one thing on earth, more lovely than another, it is a fair girl of the tender age of Winifred Wood! Her beauty awakens no feeling beyond that of admiration. None this end. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. 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. But I don’t want to. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. I only know that it is right to do what I do. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing.
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