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Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. “But you’re wrong. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. ‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. His body had been maimed many times. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. But if he starts a long jog, his name is Dennis.
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