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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. He addressed the boy as Jay. “I thank you for your advice,” she said. Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor, which appeared to have been recently dislodged. Her heart in her mouth, hoping against hope, Melusine made her way back to where she had left the boy. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away.
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