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"What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. ” Ann Veronica turned her back on the Michaelmas daisies, and faced toward the house with an air of a duty completed. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. . The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. ’ A question leapt into Everett’s head and he recalled the letter to the Abbess.
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