Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. “Don’t you care for Mr. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. Particularly when it was obvious the fellow was one of these pitiful wretches weak enough to allow themselves to be ousted from their inheritances and thus obliged to come seeking succour of their neighbours.
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