Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. Like carpenter, like chips. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover.
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