’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. \"It's getting late John. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Wood. They do not come for me, to find me and bring me home. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable.
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