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Thyrza by George Gissing
page 44 of 812 (05%)
exclaimed; 'it's like a breath o' fresh air to look at you, I'm
sure. If this kind o' weather goes on there won't be much left o'
me. I'm a-goin' like the butter.'

'It's warmish, that's true,' said Luke, when she had finished her
laugh. 'I heard Mr. Boddy playing in there, and I've got a message
for him.'

'Come in and sit down. He's just practisin' a new piece for his club
to-night.'

Ackroyd advanced into the parlour. The table was spread for tea, and
at the tray sat Mrs. Bower's daughter, Mary. She was a girl of
nineteen, sparely made, and rather plain-featured, yet with a
thoughtful, interesting face. Her smile was brief, and always passed
into an expression of melancholy, which in its turn did not last
long; for the most part she seemed occupied with thoughts which lay
on the borderland between reflection and anxiety. Her dress was
remarkably plain, contrasting with her mother's, and her hair was
arranged in the simplest way.

In a round-backed chair at a distance from the table sat an old man
with a wooden leg, a fiddle on his knee. His face was parchmenty,
his cheeks sunken, his lips compressed into a long, straight line;
his small grey eyes had an anxious look, yet were ever ready to
twinkle into a smile. He wore a suit of black, preserved from sheer
decay by a needle too evidently unskilled. Wrapped about a scarcely
visible collar was a broad black neckcloth of the antique fashion;
his one shoe was cobbled into shapelessness. Mr. Boddy's spirit had
proved more durable than his garments. Often hard set to earn the
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