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. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. ‘Tee-ree-sa. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. How to hold her, how to keep her at his side; this was the problem with which he struggled. “Ah, Vee,” he said, “that’s better! and kissed her back rather clumsily. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin.
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