Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. 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. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it. . Oh God! pardon me. . She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. Things that you and the nuns would not think about for—’ She stopped, biting back the words “for a young girl”.
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