“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard.
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