I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. “You could have told me about it, Michelle. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. 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. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. Playing became a way of escape. She twanged the catgut under her fingers.
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