He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. There was no need to be afraid for me. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. 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. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again.
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