I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. Quite ordinary. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. He must be more or less of an age with this man. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco.
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