“Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. A dresser, a washstand, and a clothes press. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. 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. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors.
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