But I will go. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. “I wonder if I’ve been properly brought up. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. Then she stood up and looked around the room. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. I will not be persecuted in this way by you. ‘As to that, I am a devil, say the nuns.
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