The two years of convent
life, too, seemed to be slipping out of little Madelon's
existence, as if they had never been; she could almost fancy
she had been sleeping all these months, and had awakened to
find all the same--ah! no, not quite the same. Madelon had a
sharp little pang of grief as she thought of her father, and
then a glad throb of joy as she thought of Monsieur Horace--and
then she suddenly discovered that she was horribly hungry,
and, jumping up, she began to walk towards the village.
Not fifty yards from where she had been sleeping stood the
hotel where she had so often stayed, and where she had first
met Horace Graham. There, too, everything was stirring and
awakening into activity--shutters being thrown back, windows
opened, the sunny courtyard swept out. Madelon stood still for
a moment looking on. She wondered whether her old friend,
Mademoiselle Cecile, was still there; she thought it would be
very pleasant to go in and see her, and have some breakfast in
the big _salle-a-manger_, with the pink and yellow paper roses,
and long rows of windows looking out into the courtyard and
garden.
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