There was one letter. A fortnight passed, then a month. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. It was hot and dry. Was he planning on spending more time with her once in the country? The streets choked with beggars and the dying. The less said, therefore, on this point the better; because, as nothing is to be gained by it, it would only be trouble thrown away.
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