” Tears flowed down her face. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. 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 felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. He stood away from her.
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