‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. Hastening along the passage he came to the sixth door. Later, she would sew it on. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. ” She looked away from him.
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