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. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. This astute personage was somewhat under the middle size, but fairly proportioned, inclining rather to strength than symmetry, and abounding more in muscle than in flesh. Which was not to say that ladies were not interested in him. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. No doubt he has been drinking for days without eating substantially, and his heart gave out. I’m starving. Fascination. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so.
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