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Occasionally he relit his pipe. The man lingered. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. But it is my fault. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. He was so seldom wrong. Take it, I tell you. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened.
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