She crushed the letter in her hand. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. ” The housemaid’s presence acted as a useful restraint. too young to be of any use. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. 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. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. “Dear me, what a relief! If I had had any nerves that man would have trampled upon them long ago. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal. .
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