But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. ‘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. Your father has forbidden you to go!’” “Well?” “She said, ‘I hate being horrid to you and father, but I feel it my duty to go to that ball!’” “Felt it her duty!” “‘Very well,’ I said, ‘then I wash my hands of the whole business. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. But it's French manners, I suppose.
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