“Rather darker than most of them. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. Darrell's eyes were of that clear gray which it is difficult to distinguish from blue by day and black at night; and his rich brown hair, which he could not consent to part with, even on the promise of a new and modish peruke from his adoptive father, fell in thick glossy ringlets upon his shoulders; whereas Jack's close black crop imparted the peculiar bullet-shape we have noticed, to his head. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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