"Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. 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. One day it was gone. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house. It’s gone. My nerves were in rags. Everything. You ought to know that.
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