Fludd: a Novel
“Sister Anthony whispered. “She never normally lets it out of her possession. She was in a state this morning though. She’s got a wart.” The nun tapped her face. “Here. Here, on her lip. Ugly thing. Come up in the night like a mushroom. Cyril said to her, ‘Mother Purpiture, you want to get that looked at, I think it’s cancer.’”
“Oh, Sister Anthony,” Philly said, “whatever shall I do?”
“Just follow me into the parlour.” Sister Anthony, her veil flapping, her elbows out, made sheepdog movements behind her back. “Quick now, get a move on. I thought I’d never get her out of the place. How can I go on parish visits, she said, with this excrescence? In the end I told her there was a piece of gossip on Back Lane, some woman run away with her lodger. She can’t resist a piece of gossip. She’ll be out for the afternoon, going from house to house.”
“It goes dark by half past four,” Philly said.
“We’ll have you out of here by then. By half past four you’ll be on the train.”
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