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. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork.
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