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Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. Lucia, you will come to love me and all the blessings of the Lord that marriage brings. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. Taber. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. “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.
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