By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. “I can’t endure it,” she said. Heaven forbid. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. 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. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating.
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