‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. She could think of nothing more to say. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed.
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