I consented. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different.
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