‘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. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen.
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