ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. That is why I called myself Anna. 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. ‘C’est ridicule. I am safe while I am there, for I have had bolts fitted everywhere, and a pane of glass in the front door. I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing.
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