“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. "Yes, Auntie! And to date you have cost me precisely sixteen thousand dollars— hard earned, every one of them.
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