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The tired woman looked quietly at her. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful.
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