"Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. She continued to fan herself. Here is one verse. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. I said, that day at Surbiton, ‘There’s many good things in life, but there’s only one best, and that’s the wild-haired girl who’s pulling away at that oar. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. You will begin to see it all opening out. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights.
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