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. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. ‘Whereas my need was very great indeed. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life.
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