But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Still, they bob up occasionally. It’s not far from twilight. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open.
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