She threw off her cloak. There was a rip in the
fur, and the dirty lining hung out. Lucy shuddered.
Mrs. Waldeaux's blood must have turned to water, or she
would never have permitted that!
"You must rest now. I will take care of you," she said,
with a little nod of authority. Frances looked at her
perplexed. Why should this pretty creature mother her
with such tenderness?
Oh! It was the girl that George should have married!
She glanced at the white room with its dainty bibelots,
the Bible, the Madonnas, watching, benign. Poor little
nun, waiting for the love that never could come to her!
"I am glad you are here, my child. You can tell me what
I want to know. I have not an hour to spare. I am going
to my son--to George. Do you know where he is?"
"At Vannes, in Brittany."
"Brittany--that is a long way." Frances rose
uncertainly. "I hoped he was near. I was in a Russian
village, and Clara's letter was long in finding me. When
I got it, I travelled night and day. I somehow thought
I should meet him on the way. I fancied he would come to
meet me."
Lucy's blue eyes watched her keenly a moment. Then she
rang the bell.
"You must eat, first of all," she said.
"No, I am not hungry. Vannes, you said? I must go now.
I haven't an hour."
"You have two, exactly. You'll take the express at
eight. Oh, I'm never mistaken about a train. Here is
the coffee. Now, I'll make you a nice sandwich."
Frances was faint with hunger.
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