The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense.
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