The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. You lie about your past all the time and you know it. He would pick a random member of the ever-shifting household for the sake of example. 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.
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