Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. 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. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Your purpose is done.
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