‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. She had never felt so cold, she felt even colder than she had in the water. Wood. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person.
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