‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. I love you—unendurably. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Nuns, I mean. ” She whispered. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie.
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