She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. "I can't see him. 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. CHAPTER XI. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy.
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