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“Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. 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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