“For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. 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. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. Morningside Park had been passive and defective; all this rushed about and was active, but it was still defective. She missed them already. Sanguine they were not. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes.
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