Like a trollop in heat. 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. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. .
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