The ladder was now within reach. That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. “Well, because I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. It was painful to want him so much. For that matter, my future be damned.
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