Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. ‘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 was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever.
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