The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. I suppose I ought to have been a man. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. He's the only native I trust in these parts. .
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