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. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation.
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