But they would not be denied. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence. 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. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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