She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. God must love me, for he has guided me here.
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