She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. The unequal battle went on. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle.
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