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She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Capes was something superadded. Her head ached with a hollow pain. —'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health, Mint. 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. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace.
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