He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love.
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