I have only just left Wych Street. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. ” It took some days for this phase to pass, and it left some scars and something like a decision. The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. 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.
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