Our ideal had fallen. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. He was all alone, like herself. ‘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. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. “So far you’ve got me and I you.
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