He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. There was only one prisoner in the ward. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Sir John hesitated, and then continued. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. ‘Move, you.
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