Wagstaff. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. “Did it seem like I was in pain to you?” She smirked. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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