“Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. He knew she had been weeping. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. She 191 picked up the remote, usurping it of its dividing status between their bodies.
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