A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him.
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