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. For the sort of love-making you think about. ‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Wherein she differed but little from her young sisters.
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