Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. 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 felt the first sting of the whip. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind. Her wedding gown! She wondered if the spirit of the unknown mother looked down upon her.
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