He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. 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. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. ” “Then don’t talk to me now. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears.
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