“I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. ’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. Their small talk continued. 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. Having made a tolerably good meal upon the loaf, overcome by fatigue, Jack turned into a barn in Stoke Newington, and slept till late in the day, when he awakened much refreshed.
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