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. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. I do not wish to blow off a head, you understand. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty.
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