She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. 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. I’ve—dreads. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. It is always on his person.
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