“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Things that you and the nuns would not think about for—’ She stopped, biting back the words “for a young girl”. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it.
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