And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. ‘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. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her.
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