I somehow understood. “Dear me!” he said. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. ” She trailed off as the smell hit her nose. A riding-habit is all I have seen. ” She thought more and more along that line. 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. They don’t know who did it, actually.
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