He leapt down into the haha surrounding the terrace, and saw that the nun was there also and backing towards him, anxiously checking now and then above the level of the terrace. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Playing became a way of escape.
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