"The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. 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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