” He looked at her intently. Burn your palette and your easel. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side. Then her head disappeared suddenly in her hands, and her shoulders shook violently. He saw the girl, and sprang up in bed. \" His tone was weak and conciliatory. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head.
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