’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. Below it a prodigiously large bolt was shot into the socket, and, in order to keep it there, was fastened by a hasp, and further protected by an immense padlock. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations.
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