He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. The comments on the makeover lessened but were replaced by long admiring glances by boys who had never before given her the time of day. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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