It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. She seemed bursting with the desire to talk, and watching for her opportunity. One would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it.
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