“Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. 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. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar.
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