He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Hers were less noble, yet stately.
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