She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. “That’s what we narcs have to do. ‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it.
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