But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. “I want two words—with Miss Pellissier alone,” Hill pleaded. 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. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one.
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