‘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. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. “Why should it matter?” he said. “If you cannot listen to me now it must remain undelivered. Her stifled misery had betrayed her.
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