If ever I could bring myself to ask you any favour, I would ask you to forget even as I have forgotten. ‘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. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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