Suspicion was in his face. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. ‘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. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. “One doesn’t want to turn the whole thing into a mere sex antagonism. It's certain.
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