“Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. "Come Bess,—no whimpering. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. Certainly I never met him. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had.
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