“Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. And you tell me that the reason you are doing all this is so that you can marry an Englishman!’ Melusine giggled. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. 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. “I remember you now,” he said. “It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement. “Would YOU like us—if some one told you the bare outline of our story?— and what we are doing?” “I shouldn’t mind,” said Ann Veronica.
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