The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. ” “Right!” he answered. Things that you and the nuns would not think about for—’ She stopped, biting back the words “for a young girl”. ” He beamed upon her.
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