There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. "Drink this, then," roared Blueskin. The chance had gone. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work.
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