She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. ‘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.
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