It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it.
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