He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. He stabbed into her with brute force. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel. “Quite alone, sir.
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