Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. ‘No, I do not go back. But come in, dear.
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