Wild had escaped. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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