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In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. . Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. Gerald exchanged a puzzled glance with his friend. But it was not so ordered. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr.
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