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. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself.
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