’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. I was a novelty. 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. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. To disillusion her, forthwith. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said.
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