" The spinster did not ask if the mother lived; the question was inconsequent. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. Almost light-heartedly. 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. It appeared highly probable to her that he would stop her allowance. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate.
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