His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. I am. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites.
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