‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. This accident rather confirms than checks my purpose.
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