‘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. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. I spent my fair share of time in the closet.
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