A cool gray light illuminated small portions of the stone floor. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. 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. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused.
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