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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. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. For I still love her mother. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised.

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