“Yes, Mother dear,” she said proudly.
Her Irish voice was rich and deep, compared with the thin, nasal tones of the Frenchwomen.
“Shall I order a cab for them, Mother?”
That was Sister Caroline, the sœur econome.
“No, no. They must walk ... holy poverty.... You will put on the heavy travelling veils, Sisters, and the big cloaks, just the same as for a journey.”
The heat of that would be stifling, in this weather and on foot! An unmortified thought.... Sister Clara stuck a pin in her sleeve. She would remember to confess a slight yielding to sensuality of thought.
There had been similar yieldings, once or twice, within the last year.
“Yes, Mother dear. Sister Dominic’ll sit in the waiting-room with two of the dear orphans, and I’ll be looking after the one that’s in with the dentist. I’ll not take an eye off of her, on any pretext whatever. I quite understand, Mother dear, that’s the way it’ll be. Make your mind easy.”
One had to be knowing, and careful, going out into the world.
There was a sense of adventure in setting out, the additional veil hanging swart, and straight, and heavy, pulling a little so that one’s head jerked slightly backwards every now and then.