” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy.
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