Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. “You say that he is alive. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it.
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