But you will, you will. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. Always. It slipped out—as did that “she”. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year.
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