Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. I arrived here with something less than five pounds in my pocket. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. Charley Pevenill was our host. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. She has been a dear. Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things would have been different.
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