The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. ” “You can’t be killed?” He asked. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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