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Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent.
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