I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. He gave her silence in return.
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