Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Sometimes it seemed that she would never recover it. My son went down after his death.
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