The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. Earles was absolutely indifferent. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles of your heart.
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