Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. 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. “Listen,” she said. “What a little brick!” he murmured. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over. The troops had kept a large space clear around the gallows. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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