‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home. ‘To go to these Charvill, it was not in my plot. ‘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. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.
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