The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. ‘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. “One moment, if you please!” She stopped short and looked round. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. But there was a face pressed to the glass. It came to Ann Veronica that life was wonderful beyond measure. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.
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