He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. “Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?” “You won’t. ‘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. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin.
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