It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. They could no longer stay in one place. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. He knew me, Nigel. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns.
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