There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food.
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