He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. It was the girl. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. ‘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.
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