It'll be in your way. ‘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. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. She hadn't meant to ask anything for herself. "Where?" she cried. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer.
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