The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. “Some afternoon. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. His hug became an embrace. 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. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources.
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