The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. 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. At the head of the cart was placed the coffin. To fall upon those tales for the first time, when the mind was fresh and the heart was young! He became aware of an odd phase to this conversation. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. It is bad policy. Get out your pad and pencil. Do not slight my warning.
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