His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. "Thank you," she said, and left the office. 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 knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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