The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. One cannot trust any man at all. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. . In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. 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.
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