She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. “I am giving my understudy a chance. You must—you shall be mine. Byby. ‘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. I don’t idealize you.
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