She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. You know, I’ve done no work at all this afternoon. 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. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. In one of the little red circles the doctor had traced that abbreviation.
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