The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the window. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. ‘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. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered.
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