‘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. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum.
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