She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. You’d think with as much dick as she gets that she’d cheer up. You have nothing more to fear from Wild. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him.
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