“What a little brick!” he murmured. It was at the age of five, when it became clear that she would not be followed by a brother, that he became more distant towards her and stopped adoring her. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. " The Wastrel advanced.
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