. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. 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. Walking to the station with him. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws.
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