It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. He hugged her when he saw her in the hallway. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend.
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