But a far greater affliction was in store for her. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay.
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