Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. 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. ’ Your name alone would fill any music hall in London. " "Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Jack. At least I can’t talk to them.
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