"Marie!" Sister Rose repeated. "It's odd you should have spoken of
Marie. I've been thinking about her lately. I can't get her out of my
head. And I've dreamed of seeing her--meeting her unexpectedly
somewhere."
"Perhaps she's been thinking of you, wherever she is, and you feel her
mind calling to yours. I believe in such things, don't you?"
"I never thought much about them before, I suppose because I've had so
few people outside who were likely to think of me. No one but you. Or
perhaps Marie, if she ever does think of old times. I wish I could meet
her, not in dreams, but really."
"Queerer things have happened. And if you're going to travel you can't
tell but you may run across each other," said Peter. "I've sometimes
caught myself wondering whether I should see her in New York, for there
it's like London and Monte Carlo--the most unexpected people are always
turning up."
"Is Monte Carlo like that?" Mary asked, with the quick, only half-veiled
curiosity which Peter had noticed in her before when relating her own
adventures on the Riviera.
"Yes. More than any other place I've ever been to in the world. Every
one comes--anything can happen--there. But I don't want to talk about
Monte Carlo. You really wouldn't find it half as interesting as your
beloved Italy. And I shouldn't like to think of poor Marie drifting
there, either--Marie as she must be now."
"I used to hope," Mary said, "that she might come back here, after
everything turned out so dreadfully for her, and that she'd decide to
take the vows with me.
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