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She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. "Women are always balling up and muddling clean cases. ” “Anything except that,” he murmured.
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