My father died a year ago, by the way. “Then assuredly!” said Manning. Bird and have come hither. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. 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. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. ‘Don’t be silly. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties. Even our coarseness. Marry me.
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