"Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. The evenings were dulcet and soft. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. " "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo.
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