‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. 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. “Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. .
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