There is a small yewtree west of the church. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. But I dare not accept it. “‘Go it, missie,’ they said; “kick aht!’ “I swore at that policeman—and disgusted him.
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