“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “Where am I?” he muttered. The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small.
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