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There is a precision and a poise to Muriel Spark's prose which suggest that we are in good hands. 'The poplars,' we read on the first page of The Abbess of Crewe, 'cast their shadows in the autumn afternoon's end, and the shadows lie in regular still file across the pathway like a congregation of prostrate nuns of the Old Order.' Later, we inspect this careful scene: 'The self-controlled English sun makes leafy shadows fall on this polished table and across the floor. A bee importunes at the window pane. The parlor is cool and fresh.' This is a quiet, straight-faced world in which wry, comic slips and falls are about to take place. As in the following speech by the future abbess of Crewe, addressing a pair of visiting Jesuits:
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