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‘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. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. She cursed Satan and screamed at the heavens, praying to Mary frantically. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “Oh, I know you would stop me if you could. Got the tickets? Yes, but then—you said you borrowed?” “I did, too,” said Ann Veronica. The wedding day came shortly after she turned fourteen.
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