They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. You are my prisoner, murderer. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller. 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. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion.
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