There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. They have no ideas what to do with us. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo.
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