Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. His hands came up, his face broke apart. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced.
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