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Only an undermaid I was then. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. ‘She’s terrified. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. 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.
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