‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. He looked at Hilary and nodded. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. She did not wince.
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