"Ah yes," he said at last, "I
had thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too
often. I dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I
doubt if I can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble
yourself about it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe
you would enter into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always
thought it a part of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter
should be fresh and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With
the manners of the present time she is liable to become so dusty and
crumpled. Pansy's a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she has
knocked about too much. This bustling, pushing rabble that calls
itself society-one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents
are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her
there, in the old garden, under the arcade, among those tranquil
virtuous women. Many of them are gentlewomen born; several of them are
noble. She will have her books and her drawing, she will have her
piano. I've made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing
ascetic; there's just to be a certain little sense of sequestration.
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