It was a purse. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. You will survive, mark my words. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns.
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