‘You are the one that I have met in London. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it. 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. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave.
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