It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour. A little kindness would not bring the world tumbling about her ears.
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