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. She was silent. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. I’m not a lovesick boy. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line.
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