My reflections on Mother Anastasia gradually produced
in me the conviction that there was something more in her words, her
manner, and her actions than would appear to the ordinary observer.
In considering this matter, I went back to the very first of my
intercourse with this beautiful woman, who, divested of the dismal
disguise of her sisterhood, had produced upon my memory an impression
which was so strong that, whenever I now thought of Mother Anastasia,
she appeared before my mental vision in a white dress, with a broad hat
and a bunch of flowers in her belt. In the character of a beautiful and
sensible woman, and not at all in that of a Mother Superior, she had
warmly commended my suit of Sylvia Raynor. With our regard for Sylvia as
a basis, we had consulted, we had confided, we had shown ourselves to
each other in a most frank and friendly manner.
Suddenly she had changed, she had deserted me without a word of
explanation, and the next time I saw her she was totally opposed to my
maintaining any connection whatever with Sylvia.
But there had been more than this. This woman, beautiful even in her
gray garb, had shown an increasing interest in the subject, which could
not be altogether explained by her interest in Sylvia.
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