Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. Martin's Le Grand. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. The man was my husband.
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