The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. He waved to her. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. " Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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