CHAPTER XVIII. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building.
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