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. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. .
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