He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
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