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Rh I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano.

Nay, prithee do not!—he will mock!

He'll say We nuns are vain!

Ay, and kind!

Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite, That he has come, each week, on Saturday For ten years, to the convent!

Ay! and more! Ever since—fourteen years ago—the day His cousin brought here, 'midst our woollen coifs, The worldly mourning of her widow's veil,

Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves.

He only has the skill to turn her mind

From grief—unsoftened yet by Time—unhealed!

He is so droll! It's cheerful when he comes!— He teases us!—But we all like him well!— —We make him pasties of angelica!