They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. 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. There was no one stirring in the flats. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him.
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