‘That’s right. I ——” He stopped short. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. 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. " Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She’ll tell everyone soon, if only to gain herself some attention!” He cried under his breath. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions.
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