All their teeth are yellow.
No tooth-brush ever entered that convent. Brushing one's teeth is at the top of a ladder at whose bottom is the loss of one's soul.
They never say my.
They possess nothing of their own, and they must not attach themselves to anything.
They call everything our; thus:
our veil, our chaplet; if they were speaking of their chemise, they would say our chemise.
Sometimes they grow attached to some petty object,-- to a book of hours, a relic, a medal that has been blessed.
As soon as they become aware that they are growing attached to this object, they must give it up.
They recall the words of Saint Therese, to whom a great lady said, as she was on the point of entering her order, "Permit me, mother, to send for a Bible to which I am greatly attached."
"Ah, you are attached to something! In that case, do not enter our order!"
Every person whatever is forbidden to shut herself up, to have a place of her own, a chamber.
They live with their cells open. When they meet, one says, "Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar!"
The other responds, "Forever."
The same ceremony when one taps at the other's door.
Hardly has she touched the door when a soft voice on the other side is heard to say hastily, "Forever!"
Like all practices, this becomes mechanical by force of habit; and one sometimes says forever before the other has had time to say the rather long sentence, "Praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar."
Among the Visitandines the one who enters says:
"Ave Maria," and the one whose cell is entered says, "Gratia plena."
It is their way of saying good day, which is in fact full of grace.
At each hour of the day three supplementary strokes sound from the church bell of the convent.