She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. His expression altered. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened.
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