“But why now? Don’t boys know that I am involved with John right now?” “That’s not the way it works, Lucy. I knew him in spite of his dress. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. It isn’t. 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. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one.
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