That window there…. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Not for me. Fortunately, the window was not far from the ground; so opening it gently, he dropped into a backyard, and from thence got into the street. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun.
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