Playing became a way of escape. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. "Hope to. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. ‘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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