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. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. I never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down.
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