Such, then, was this little world in which our Madelon
suddenly found herself placed to her utter bewilderment at
first, so alien was it to all her former experiences, so
little could she understand of its meaning, its aims, its
spirit and intention; no more than, as it seemed to her, those
around her understood her, or her wants and wishes. To her,
the convent only appeared inexpressibly _triste_ and dreary, a
round of dull tasks, enlivened by duller recreations, day
after day, for ever bounded by those blank, grey walls--no
change, no variety, no escape. The bare, scantily-furnished
rooms, the furniture itself, the food, the nuns' perpetual
black dress, and ungraceful headgear,--Madelon hated them all,
as she gradually recovered from her first desolation, and
became alive again to external impressions; and, as the first
keenness of her sorrow wore off, this vague sense of general
unhappiness and discomfort showed itself in an attitude of
opposition and defiance to every one and everything around
her. From being helplessly wretched and cross, she became
distinctly naughty, and before long our Madelon had drifted
into the hopeless position of a child always refractory,
always in disgrace, a position from which, when once assumed,
it is almost impossible for the small hapless delinquent to
struggle free.
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