She heard their feet and muffled voices. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. I admit it.
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