Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. Well, one must hope, that was all. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass.
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