’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. The weed was all right. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. She was dressed in a little white frock, with a very long body, and very short sleeves, which looked (from a certain fullness about the hips,) as if it was intended to be worn with a hoop. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She did not resist him, she could not.
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