‘She would not tell me. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman.
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