“It was the night you left Paris. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then. . ’ ‘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. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane.
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