“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. She knew now that he never would. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. 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.
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