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We are nuns. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast.
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