We'll get together this afternoon; and you can pretend that I am your father. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. For freedom at least.
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