“It is part of the irony of life,” he said. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. “Is that plain?” she asked. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms.
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