I stubbornly insisted that we wait, and you woke up. ‘Yes, I know. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets. 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 calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. If you had lived twenty years ago you would have been called a Young Person, and it would have been your chief duty in life not to know, never to have heard of, and never to understand. Perhaps I am still mad.
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