Senior year started with a whimper. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. 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. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father.
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