I’ve made up my mind. 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. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by.
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