He had said so. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. ’ ‘Nonsense, it’ll give Pottiswick something genuine to complain about,’ said Gerald cheerfully, moving to the edge of the trees. Besides, I do not want a price on my head. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. 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. Still keeping ahead of his pursuers, he ran along the direct road, till the houses disappeared and he got into the open country. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why.
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