His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. “You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will. When things are at the worst, they'll mend. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is.
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