She had heard Alice talking and crying at the same time, a painful noise. The Times slipped from his fingers. ‘Pig! Pig, a thousand times!’ Running footsteps could be heard now, and she knew that the commotion was bringing the nuns, just as she had hoped. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct.
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