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47 Mother Superior Rising as she entered class a quiet shussing rustle Good morning, mother superior thirty voices in unison, her huge draping rosary, black habit’s ominous cavernous sleeves to put her hands in. I was called back to the cloak closet with its rank smell of wet wool coats, unbuckled black galoshes, neatly lined along, the heavy paneled wall, the waxed wooden floors, puddles under umbrellas Say the Act of Contrition my child her ruler slid out of the sleeve, poised. I stumbling, —and I detest all my sins . . . um . . . the pains of hell— Hands held out trembling in the cloak closet. ...

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