‘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. ‘Imbecile. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. “Now I suppose Brendon understands exactly what you mean,” he remarked. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished.
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