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. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. Surely she could ignore him. Her anger died and she eyed him. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. ’ Melusine stared. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand.
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