A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. ‘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. He began to tell me something—and stopped.
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