She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. For freedom at least. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. “You may not leave.
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