’ ‘Not dead, miss. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. ‘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.
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