The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. There he stands. He had the air of a man who has said too much. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. Fortescue?” “At your service. She was certain he would hear, sleeping in the nearby castle.
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