‘As to that, I am at this moment altogether displeased with Gérard, you understand,’ Melusine temporised. 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. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. I asked him—to take me away.
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