re is more truth in the "has" than in the "hasn't."
"I have seen uglier people," admits Dulcinea, regretfully; "when he has his face washed, and his hair brushed, he isn't half a bad boy."
"Boy?" asks Portia, doubtfully; to her the foregoing speech is full of difficulty.
"I daresay you would call him a man," says Dulce, with a shrug of her soft shoulders; "but really he isn't. If you had grown up with him, as I have, you would never think of him as being anything but an overgrown baby, and a very cross one. That is the worst of being brought up with a person, and being told one is to marry him by-and-by. It rather takes the gilt off him, I think," says Dulce with a small smile.
"But why must you marry him?" asks Portia, opening her large black fan in an indolent fashion, and waving it to and fro.
The sun retiring
"On waves of glory, like an ocean god,"
flings over her a pale, pink halo, that renders even more delicately fine the beauty of her complexio
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