He was beginning to think about her inordinately. " "Right," answered Ireton. She interrupted. “Will you come in, Sir John. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. 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. There! You are trying to take your hand away.
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