His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. Forgive me?” She pleaded. She knew it. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Later in the evening she heard him whistling, poor man! She felt very restless and excited. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun.
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