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. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. “I will send you a copy,” Mr. "You heard me say it! It was inevitable. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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