Even were she to get an opportunity to scream, it would be some time before such a call, unprecedented though it might be, brought the nuns so much out of their absorption that they interrupted their prayer to investigate. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Queer world. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her.
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