‘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. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. ” He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said.
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