Everything is being done that can be. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning.
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