"My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. ” “Oh. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. ‘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. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Here was one that subtly mocked her.
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