Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building. 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. But at the word “home” she turned again. ” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray.
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