’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. The attempt was unsuccessful. He told her something about music, the great world outside. “These are for you.
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