She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. Jolly nice girl, too. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. ‘Gerald Alderley, I don’t know what you deserve.
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