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It isn’t law, nor custom, nor masculine violence settled that. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. He whispered in her ear. 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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