There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. She hastened past.
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