“I want to be your friend,” he said. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. 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. He kissed her cheek.
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