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. Mike chortled. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. God, we suck. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. We come out into the world, some of us—” She paused.
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