She awoke at 11:12 am, her foster sister snoring in the bed across the room. “Reuben, come here. “Thanks, Cathy. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner.
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