He pushed her small hand into his jeans. Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. 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.
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