"Leave me, Sir; I insist. " After all those former bitter failures, this cup was sweet, even if there was the flavour of irony. When the prisoner was removed from the dock, we met Jonathan as we passed through the yard. 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. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air.
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