She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill.
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