"Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not. 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. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. . He kissed her deeply and hungrily. Even your family. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. “It was poison—why not?” she answered.
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