The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “They told me D,” said Ann Veronica.
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