“Believe me, I know. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. 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. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. I will be up with my wife and daughter after lunch. “The fees are paid to the end of the session. You tell me he didn't like the stuff. "Yes; he'll suspect nothing.
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