The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. “Stop,” he said. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. Humph.
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