She felt terrible lying to him. ‘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. And experience was slow in coming. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. It is no good arguing about a thing like that.
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