‘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 could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. But that is men all over. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly.
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