"Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. There was also the daunting task of getting dressed. ” She looked at him; his face, downcast and in profile, was handsome and strong. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. You have been her guardian angel.
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