The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. “Don’t be a hypocrite. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ‘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. She's my mealticket.
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