Her eyes where glassy and shining. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. “I wish you didn’t. Mirrors. I’d come back from the ends of the earth. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity.
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