" "Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said Trenchard, sternly,—"to the boy. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. " "If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his condition, I suppose, ain't it?" rejoined Wood angrily; for, though he had no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect, he was rather offended at having it declined. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. E.
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