She turned the television off. ‘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 sat within a few feet of him. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down?’ She considered him a moment, her head a little on one side. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. You. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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