The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. I looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful.
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