Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. The boy she had loved was gone.
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