In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. Ray did not pace, he just stood. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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