Sir James Thornhill's preparations being completed, Mr. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. How old are you?” She asked.
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