“When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. Hobson, the Phys. To-morrow they will know the truth. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. 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. "Poor Mrs. CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely.
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