‘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. We are very poor, but manage to squeeze a little happiness out of each day. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. “I didn’t ask you to get married. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. Anna lets the deception continue and has to bear the burden of her sister’s reputation which, in Paris at any rate, is that of being a coquette.
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