It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. " "What am I to do to earn it?" asked Blueskin, with a disgusting leer,—"cut a throat—or throw myself at your feet—eh, my dear?" "Give me that child," returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity.
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