Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. We are nuns. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. But those days are over—quite over. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid.
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