“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. 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. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts.
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