‘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. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. He let go of the girl’s arm. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress.
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