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\"God, it's too curly for a brush. She wedged the towel between her legs. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. But we're neglecting the punch all this time. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster.
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