The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. You don’t understand, Lucy, they just aren’t like that. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart.
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