” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. ‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil. 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. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. —"Stay! something occurs to me. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. “All right so far,” she said to herself.
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