It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “I am sick of it. “This is not every day. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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