“I can’t. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. Q. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised.
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