. I have always hated it. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune.
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