The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. The man was dangerous. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. His smile faded. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. I’ll have to make a visit out of town. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was.
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