’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. " All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.
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