There would be no mercy in this man. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. . Sometimes I take innocent lives. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days.
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