The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. 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. ’ ‘People are silly. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression.
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