’ She shrugged fatalistically. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. He knew me, Nigel. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. I didn’t allow myself to see things as they were in those days; now I do.
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