The biological laboratory had an atmosphere that was all its own. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. CHAPTER VII. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so.
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