When the twins had first come to live in the 208 house, they were thin and bony, their tiny mouths crying for food. She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back. It wouldn’t be you. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. It was as if he could smell it on her. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. 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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