Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. "Then you haven't heard?" "Of what?" "Well, well!" cried the manager, delighted at the idea of surprising the doctor.
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