In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. You don't want people to snub you later. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house.
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