" "Well, think no more about it," returned Thames. 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. "On that night,—in this room,—in your presence, Blueskin,— in yours Mr. I want to leave it for ever. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris.
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