She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. . If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. ‘Exactement. It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her.
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