’ ‘So would you run away,’ she uttered impulsively. I had already won wars and sailed ships to distant lands by the time I was thirty. ‘Odd sort of a nun. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight.
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