Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. Worse than any man. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. " While he was thus musing, he fancied he heard the lock tried. " "With all his cunning, he may meet with his match," continued Kneebone, laughing. "My enemy," replied her son.
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