Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. 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. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading.
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