“Claire!” he said, pressing his hand on his eyes.
“Monsieur, the abbess is near,” the young lady responded in tremor.
“You are not here to be a nun?”
“Why not?”
“But are you?”
“Monsieur, you have penetration. That is said to be my errand.”
“But why do you come to New France?”
“That is what the bishop said. I hope we may choose our convents, we poor nuns.”
“O Claire! I cannot endure this,” Dollard sobbed in his throat. It was a hoarse note of masculine anguish, but the girl observed him with radiant eyes.
“I never was a man fit to touch the tip of your white finger. Mademoiselle, have you forgotten those messages that I sent you by my cousin when she was with you at the convent?”