“What a hypocrite you are. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. ‘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. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. But I will not believe you. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. It would be swindling. “Please stay,” she said briefly. ” “What?” He asked, confused. “Not really. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes.
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