Camille fled like a frightened fawn into the yard, and was only
unearthed with some difficulty from behind a group of palms.
Sulky and pouting, she was led into the parlour, picking at her
blue pinafore like a spoiled infant.
"The lady and gentleman wish you to go home with them, Camille,"
said the Mother Superior, in the language of the convent. Her
voice was kind and gentle apparently; but the child, accustomed
to its various inflections, detected a steely ring behind its
softness, like the proverbial iron hand in the velvet glove.
"You must understand, madame," continued Mother, in stilted
English, "that we never force children from us. We are ever glad
to place them in comfortable--how you say that?--quarters
--maisons--homes--bien! But we will not make them
go if they do not wish."
Camille stole a glance at her would-be guardians, and decided
instantly, impulsively, finally. The woman suited her; but the
man! It was doubtless intuition of the quick, vivacious sort
which belonged to her blood that served her. Untutored in
worldly knowledge, she could not divine the meaning of the
pronounced leers and admiration of her physical charms which
gleamed in the man's face, but she knew it made her feel creepy,
and stoutly refused to go. Next day Camille was summoned from a
task to the Mother Superior's parlour. The other girls gazed
with envy upon her as she dashed down the courtyard with
impetuous movement.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90