“One hardly knows—all the time. Was there ever such madness?” “I am afraid that I don’t understand,” Ennison answered. He had not to wait long. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me.
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