It was all highly intriguing. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. 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. Jackson, to the swig. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father.
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