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But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. “I have never forgotten. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet.
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