On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side.
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