CHAPTER XXIX. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. When she judged that she must be nearly back at the library, she began to feel somewhat dispirited. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes.
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