"Oh!" she said, and that was all she did say, as she returned to the table and took her seat.
"Is my explanation satisfactory?" I asked.
"Oh, certainly," she answered; "and if you will excuse me for saying so, I think you are a very fortunate man. In trying to punish me you protected yourself,—that is, if you care to have secretaries from our institution."
As I could not see her face, I could not determine what answer I should make to this remark, and she continued, as she turned over the sheets:—
"What are you going to do with the pages which were written yesterday?"
"Tear them up," I replied, "and throw them into the basket. I wish to annihilate them utterly."
She obeyed me, and tore Sister Sarah's work into very small pieces.
"Now we will go on with the original and genuine story," I said. "And as the occurrences of yesterday are entirely banished from my mind, and as all recollection of the point where we left off has gone, will you kindly read two or three pages of what you last wrote?"
Several times I had perceived, or thought I had perceived, symptoms of emotion in the back of my secretary's shawl, and these symptoms, if such they were, were visible now. She occupied some minutes in selecting a suitable point at which to begin, but when she had done this she read without any signs of emotion, either in her shawl or in her face.
The story of the Sicilian young people progressed slowly, not because of any lack of material, but because I was anxious to portray the phases as clearly and as effectively as I could possibly do it; and whenever I could prevent myself from thinking of something else, I applied my mind most earnestly to this object. I flatter myself that I did the work very well, and I am sure there were passages the natural fervor of which would have made Sister Sarah bounce at least a yard from her chair, had they been dictated to her, but my nun did not bounce in the least.