The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. "You forgot your lunch," she said. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done.
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