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. Above her head was an aura of white fire. It will cost them something to repair their stronghold, and take them more time to build it up again than I have taken to pull it down. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman.
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