He was caressing an idea. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. One has to train one’s self not to.
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