“You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object.
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