"No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again. 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. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. But his lips were honourlocked. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. ” “Yes.
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