For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Only au revoir. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. 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. “I’m just in time to say good-bye before I go, father. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica.
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