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. “I don’t know. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. A. “I am already so hungry that I shall begin on the petit pains. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent.
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