There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. "The only disguise I ever put on is a dress-suit, and I look as natural as a pig at a Mahomedan dinner.
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