‘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. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. He had nothing more to say either to her or to Spurlock. It was explosive and gratifying. Their doors stood open, and placards with big letters indicated the section assigned to each. She had become neutral towards him and he had used the lesson to try to advance himself. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman.
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