It was not a long prayer. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. “Why?” “I still love you. 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. “Well,” said Capes, at length, “we’ve to go down, Ann Veronica.
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