His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. ‘To what do you go, mademoiselle? The life of a nun in a convent, in a country where nuns are unwelcome.
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