She stood at the window now, ready to take the first step. She
had on the old black silk gown, in which Soeur Lucie's skilful
fingers had already made the necessary alterations, a black
cloth cloak, and a little round hat and veil. She had grown a
good deal during her illness, and the idea of height was aided
by the straight black skirt, which, reaching to her ankles,
gave her a quaint, old-fashioned air. She had her bundle on
her arm, but there was still a moment of irresolution, as she
looked for the last time round the little whitewashed room. It
appeared to her that she was going to do something so
dreadfully naughty. Our Madelon had not lived so long in a
convent atmosphere, without imbibing some of the convent ideas
and opinions, and she was aware that in the eyes of the nuns
there were few offences so heinous as that which she was going
to commit. "But I am not a nun yet," thinks the poor child,
clasping and unclasping her hands in her perplexity, and
struggling with the conscience-stricken sense of naughtiness,
which threatened at this last moment to overpower all her
foregone conclusions, and disconcert her in spite of herself--
"I am not a nun yet, so it cannot be so very wrong in me; and
then there is Monsieur Horace----" and with the thought of him
all Madelon's courage returned.
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