Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. 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. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. I have no right to love you.
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