“I hate this!” Lucy accused him, pointing to the Michelle. “It is, if anything, a little above the average,” Brendon admitted. ‘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. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. He’s a footman who works for the nuns and has taken up the cudgels on her behalf. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Perhaps it was loneliness. Arrived in England, she had sought out Gosse, to keep an eye on his activities and thus keep one step ahead of him, meanwhile hoping that she might find herself another means of proof at Remenham House.
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