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He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. The light!—the light!" Astounded at his cries, Thames sprang towards him. That’s got his nerves to rags. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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