He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. . . The knife is at my breast. .
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