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McClintock was amused. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. ‘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. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Besides, you've secrets which must not be disclosed.
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