The hansom drove off. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. She could not help herself. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. He was beginning to think about her inordinately. She had heard the trader utter it many times. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image.
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