Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She did not forge a note. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. ‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit.
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