“Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. But tell her this, too. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. "I believe I'll tear them up. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said.
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