Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. ‘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 I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own.
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