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A look in her face was haunting me with a memory I could not fix when she stooped and said: "Aren't you Mary O'Neill?" The voice completed the identification, and I knew who it was. It was Alma Lier. She was now about seven-and-twenty and in the prime of her young womanhood. Her beautiful auburn hair lay low over her broad forehead, almost descending to her long sable-coloured eyebrows.
Alma had talked so eagerly and the girls had listened so intently, that nobody was aware that Sister Angela had returned to the room until she stepped forward and said: "Alma Lier, I'm ashamed of you. Go back to your bed, miss, this very minute." The other girls crept away and I half covered my face with my bed-clothes, but Alma stood up to Sister Angela and answered her back.
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