There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. They set about everyone—everyone.
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