Her husband was prouder of her every day. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. Mr. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. “Let me help you,” he begged. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.
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