I wanted to talk to you before when you first came to live here two years ago, but I never did. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. 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. Girls who had envied her former position as John’s amour passed no opportunity to utter cryptic remarks as she sat in Study Hall, walked down hallways, or rinsed her hands in the bathroom.
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