I see now that you make a game with me indeed. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. I was his wife. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. ‘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 looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Senior year started with a whimper. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. I’ve wanted you—always.
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